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LITTELLS LIVING AGE.No. 73.4 OCTOBER, 1845.
CONTENTS.
Correspondence
1. St. Giles and St. Jameschap. 16, .
2. Approaching Crisis
3. Roman Catholic Church in Germany
4. Prescotts Miscellanies
5. Beginning of the End
6. Headleys Letters from Italy
7. Journal of an African Cruiser
8. Defences and Resources of Canada
9. Deer Shooting in Canada West
10. A Lynchers Own Story
11. Selling a Wife
12. Use of the League
13. Punch, Selections from
14. French News and Chat
15. Funeral of Justice Story
16. Railways and Electric Telegraph
17. Railway Speculations
POETRYVive La Guerre, 30Song of
Regency, 44Mammoth Cave, 53.
Jerrolds Magazine,
Spectator
Examiner
United Service Magazine,
Picayune
Commercial Advertiser,
Spectator
Punch
Mr. Walsh
Mr. Sumner
Times
Spectator
Steam, 41Sordid Sweetheart, 43Punchs
ScRAPs.Carrier Pigeon, 16One Pound Notes, 18Weather Panics; Persia; Liquid
Air; Cavern in Africa; Blasting, 19Destruction of Wasps; Water in the Desert, 30
Paris Academy of Sciences ; Coming of the Mammoth, 37Cheerfulness, 41Disso-
lution of the American Union; Irish Colleges; Frogs in Stones, 48Sycee Silver, 55
Advertisement for a Physician; Dignity of the Bar; Austrian Railroads; Louis XVII.;
Northcote; Portable Cottages; Thiers; Steamer to Leghorn; Sir R. Peels Driving;
Conjugal Affection; Newspaper at Jerusalem, 56.
CORRESPONDENCE.
IT would be difficult to name a man whose public
life has been pleasanter than that of our late
Minister to England. Distinguished for learning
in early youth; Editor of the most successful
American Review; Member of Congress; Gover-
nor of his native State, and Minister to Great
Britain. Having so fulfilled his last high trust, as
to attract the respect of the nation to which he
was sent, and to raise his character at home, he
has returned to meet the hearty welcome of his
friends and fellow-citizens, who are already allot-
ting to him one of the most dignified and impor-
tant posts in society.
THERE are many indications of a commercial
crisis in England, which will affect us, although
far less than if our currency were unduly inflated.
Several articles upon the inordinate Railway spec-
ulations have been copied into this number. One
painful reflection comes to us when we see how
profusely British capital is expended on the conti-
nent. Had we managed our American debts with
the prompt honor and honesty which common
sense dictated, we might have commanded, for the
development of the rich treasures of this continent,
a thousand millions of the surphls English capital
LXXIII. LIVING AGE. VOL. vii. 1
which seeks profitable and safe investment. Upon
the subject of a permanent national system of
finance, we may in some other place ask the at-
teution of the public.
THE new series of hooks which is announced
below, is likely to be so valuable an addition to
the libraries of families, that we should not fulfil
our duty if we failed to recommend it very strongly
to our readers. The extensive connections of this~
great publishing house, make it certain that what-
ever they undertake will have an important influ-
ence upon society, and our enthusiasm has often
been kindled at the thought of the vast benefits;
which it was in their power to confer upon the
nation. In their Family Library, amounting to
nearly 200 volumes, they printed many. excellent.
books.
Two volumes have been issued as a beginning
of this series: The Elements of Morality, including
Polity. By William Whewell, D. D., author of
the History and the Philosophy of the Inductive
Sciences. This is a good beginning. It would
be a suitable present on any occasion. In these
volumes the most important questions of humans
duty and conduct are so treated as to make at-
tractive reading for all classes of society.
Their outward appearance is elegantly neat..
PAGE.
9
11
16
17
18
18
20
21
25
31
38
40
42
42
45
49
54
55CORRESPONDENCE.
The paper is solid and beautiful. The type clear
and distinct. More than 800 pages are contained
in them. As you take up these hooks they feel
like English editionswhich shows that in paper,
printing and binding, the utmost care has been
taken. We hold them 01) as a pattern for Ameri-
can publishers. Slovenly printing, upon soft
paper, xviii hardly content the public hereafter.
MEssRs. HARPER & BROTHERS respectfully beg
to announce their intention of immediately com-
mencing the publication of a new and attractive
series of sterling books, to be issued under the
general designation of Harpers New Miscellany,
which will be legibly printed, in duodecimo, on
fine paper, and bound in extra muslin, gilt. Price
Fifty Cents a volume, and issued at short intervals.
To render accessible to the million the fullest
advantages of popular instruction in the various
divisions of human knowledge is the design of the
above series. It is apparent in the present day
that books of intrinsic value are demanded by the
people. Formerly the popular taste preferred
mainly works of mere amusement; the great body
of readers now seek them as vehicles of general
knowledgebooks of a more permanently valuable
castdevoted to some of the departments of sci-
ence or general literature. A class of books ex-
pressly adapted to this demand it is the aim of the
publishers to supply, and at a price so exceedingly
cheap that every person of ordinary taste and ad-
vantages may thus become possessed of a complete
Library of the Selectest Literature of the Lan-
guage and the Age.
In this collection it is intended to include the
~best productions in every department of knowl-
.~vdge; popular philosophical treatises on topics of
universal interest; the most compact and brilliant
historical books; valuable biographical memoirs;
modern voyages and travels, & c. ; together with
scientific and other collateral divisions; in the se-
lection of all which, the most careful discrimina-
~tion will be observed.
Bubbles from the Brunnen of Nassau, is the 24th
No. of Wiley & Putnams Library. A delightful
volume of light and graceful chat and description.
Onward! Right Onward! By Mrs. Tuthill
7has been published by Messrs. Crosby & Nichols.
Lit is by the author of I 11 be a Gentleman, and
Ill be a Lady, which we should have read a
dozen times, had we taken the advice of the young
people, who read them again and again.
Parts 9 and 10 of Dr. Lardners Popular Lec-
~tures on Science and Art, have been published by
Greeley & McElrath, who append this notice,
which we cordially concur in:
The publishers are gratified at the very gene-
ral interest which the publication of these Lectures
Lhas awakened in the public tnind to subjects con-
nected with the Sciences and Useful Arts. If,
I however, those persons who have more readily ap-
preciated the value of a work of this nature, and
have promptly patronized it themselves, would
take the pains to recommend it to their friends,
and especially to the mechanics and young men of
the nation, the circulation and diffusion of useful
intelligence would be vastly extended, and the
beneficial effects of giving such direction to the
public mind speedily discerned upon the pursuits,
action and character of the American people.
In connection with this subject, we most earnest-
ly recommend to our readers Silliman~s Am ican
Journal of Science and the Arts, a work of more
than twenty years duration, and abundantly praiscd
and copied from by the European scientific jour-
nalsbut being published by the editor himself,
without the aid of bookselling machinery, it needs
the good word of all who can appreciate it, in
order to attract to it the attention which it would
etimmand tinder other circumstances.
Ma. LESTERS Medici Series of Italian Prose, is
continued, by the publication of The Florentine
Histories, by Machiavelli. This name is familiar
as a proverb, to the ears of many who have never
read a line of his works. Presented in this hand-
some form, and at a low price, we shall be well
acquainted with them. We understand that the
work has been recommended to the students of
Harvard University. Mr. Lester has well fulfilled
one of the duties of an American Consulwhich
is to naturalize here all that he finds good in other
nations.
WE know of no reason why the following re-
commendation should not be acted upon. The
Picayune calls it novel, but it is the obvious solu-
tion of the question about the Indian settlements.
Let them be admitted, when they ask for it, as
soon as the conditions of tlte Constitution shall
have been complied with.
IFJ The Albany Argus suggests a novel idea.
It is that of an Indian State admitted to our con-
federacy! The rapid advance of the Choctaws
and Cherokees in the arts of civilized life, and in
education and religious knowledge, has led the
friends of the Indian to think of the erection of
Indian States. The Argus remarks that these
nations are coming into a condition which will be
fully worthy of alliance with such a republic as
ours, and that there is no reason to doubt that they
would do honor to such a relation.Picayune.
FROM a publication of the results in about 20 of
the largest offices, it appears that the falling off
in the gross receipts of the Post Office, has been
only about 40 per cent. Now as there have been
considerable reductions in the expenses, the loss
will probably be little more than there would have
been under the old law. This result, at so early
a stage of the experiment, is better than we hoped
for, fearing that the halfway character of the re-
duction would retard its ultimate success.
PROF. STUART, of Andover, has in press a vol-
ume entitled A Critical History and Defence of
the Canon of the Old Testament. The object
of the work is to show that our Saviour and his
Apostles constantly recognized as of Divine au-
thority the books of the Old Testament, the iden-
tical books which we now find there, and no
others.
10THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 11
ChAPTER XVI.
EVERY guest of the Lamb and Star bore away
the confession of the assassin; and full soon scorn-
ful, loathing looks beset the path of Robert Willis.
The gossiping villagers would stand silent, eyeing
him askance, as he passed them. The dullest
hind would return his nod and good-morrow with
a sullen, awkward air. Even little children cow-
ered from him, huddling about their mothers, as
the gay homicide would pat their heads, and give
them pennies. It did not serve, that Robert Wil-
lis, with a roaring laugh, declared the whole a
Jesta drunken frolic just to make folks stare. It
served not that he would loudly arid laboriously
chuckle to think how he had made Blink shake
and how, with just a word or so, he had taken
everybody in. No; the confession of the mur-
derer had sunk into the hearts of his hearers: the
tale spread far and wide, and not even butts of ale
and Willis tried that Lethewould drown the
memory of it. And so in brief time, the miserable
wretch was left alone with the fiends. A few,
out of pure love of the liquor he bestowed, would
still have doubted the blood-guiltiness of their
patron; but even they could not long confront the
reproaches of their fellows. And so, with a late
and hesitating virtue, they wiped their lips of the
murderers malt, arid consented to believe him very
bad indeed. Willis, as one by one dropt from him,
grew fiercely confident; battling with brazen brow
the looks of all. Unequal fight! The devil is a
co~vard in the end: and so, after a show of scorn-
ful opposition, the poor cowed fiend gave up the
contest, and Robert Willis went no man knew
where. A sad blow was this to Justice Wattles.
That he should have spent so mrich moiiey on so
hopeless a creature! That he should have gone
to the heavy expense of Mr. Montecute Crawley!
That at so vast a price he should have saved his
kinsman from the gibbetwhen the desperate fool
had hung himself in the opinion of all men! It
would have been better, far cheaper, to let truth
take its coursebut then there was the respecta-
bility of the family! After all, it was some poor
consolation to the puzzled justice, that however a
Willis might have deserved the gallows, he had
escaped it: opinion was a hard thing; but at the
hardest it was not ti,hteried hemp. Nobody could
say that a Willis was ever hanged. Pruth, after
all, had not been sacrificed for nothing; and that
was some comfort at the least.
In due course, the Kent wagon brought St.
Giles to London. It was about five oclock on a
bright summar morning when St. Giles, with rap-
turous eyes, loked upon the borough. Yes, he
had returned to his hard-nursing mother, London.
She had taught him to pick and steal, and lie, and,
yet a child, to anticipate the iniquities of men ; and
thenfoolish, guilty riIother !she had scourged
her youngling for his naughtiness; believing by
the severity of her chastisement best to sho~v her
scorn of vice, her love of goodness. And St.
Giles, as the w gon crawled along, lay full-
length upon the straw, and mused upon the fre-
quent haunts of his early days. Sweet and balmy
sweet such thoughts! Refreshing to the soul,
jaded and fretful from the fight of men, to slake
its thirst for peace and beauty, at the fountain of
memory, when childhood seemed to have played
with angels. What a luxury of the heart, to cast
off the present like a foul, begrimed garment, and
let the soul walk awhile in the naked innocence
of the past! Here is the scene of a happy child-
hood. It is full of gracious shapesa resurrection
of the gentle, beautiful. We have lain in that
field, and thought the larka trembling, fluttering
speck of song above usmust be very near to
God. That field is filled with sweetest memories,
as with flowers. And there is an old-old tree.
How often have we climbed it, and, throned amid
its boughs, have read a wondrous book; a some-
thing beating like a drum at our heart; a some-
thing that, confusing us with a dim sense of glory,
has filled our soul with a strange, fitful music, as
with the sounds of a far-coming triumph ! Such
may be the memories of a happy youth. And
what, as St. Giles, with his face leaning on his
propped hands, gazed from the wagon, what,
seeing the scenes of his childhoodwhat saw he l
Many things big with many thoughts.
Yes; how well he knew that court! Six-and-
thirty hours hunger had raged in his vitals, and
with a desperate plunge, he had dived into a
pocket. It was enipty. But the would-be thief
was felt, and hotly pursued. He turned up that
court. He was very young, then; and, like a
fool, knew not the ins-and-outs of the borough.
He ran up the court; there was no outlet; and
the young thief was caught like a stoat in a trap.
And now St. Giles sees the joy of his pursuer;
and almost feels the blow the good, indignant nian,
dealt as with a flail upon the half-naked child.
Ay, and it was at that post, that his foot slipt
when he was chased by the beadle for stealing two
potatoes from a dealers sack. Yes; and opposite
that very house, the beadle laid about him with
his cane; and there it was that the big, raw-boned,
painted woman, tore him from the beadles grasp;
and giving him a penny, told him with an oath to
run for very life. Such were the memoriesyes,
every turning had suchthat thronged upon St.
Giles, gazing in thought upon his childhood days,
from the Kent wagon.
And then happier thoughts possessed our hero.
He looked again and again at the card given him
by St. James; and that hit of paper with its few
words was a talisman to his soul; a written spell
that threw a beauty and a brightness about the
meanest things of London. Human life moved
about him full of hope and dignity. He hador
would havean interest in the great gamehow
great and how small !of men. He would no
longer be a man-wolf; a wretched thing to hunt
and be hunted. He worild know the daily sweets
of honest bread, and sleep the sleep of peace.
What a promotion in the scale of life! What
unhoped felicity, to be permitted to be honest,
gentle! What a saving mercy, to be allowed to
walk upright with those he might begin to look
upon as fellow-creatures! And as St. Giles
thought of this, gratitude melted his very being,
and he could have fallen upon his knees on London
stones, in thankfulness and penitence. Solitude
to him had been a softening teacher. Meditation
had come upon him in the far wilds; and the iso-
lated, badged, and toiling felon for the first time
thought of the mystery of himself; for the first
time dared to look in upon his hearta look that
some who pass for bold men sometimes care not to
takeand he resolved to fight against what seemed
his fate. He would get hack to the world.
Despite of the sentence thatbade him not to hope,
he would hope. Though doomed to he a life-long
human instrument, a drudging carcass, he would
win back his manhoodhe would return to life a[2 THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
self-respecting being. And this will beat, con-
stant as a pulse, within him. And these feelings,
though the untutored man could give them no har-
monious utterance, still sustained and soothed him;
and now, in London streets, made most hopeful
music to his soul.
And St. Giles passed through old familiar
places, and would not ponder on the miserable
memories that thronged them. No; with a strong
will, he laid the rising ghosts of his boyish days,
and went with growing stoutness on. He was
hound for St. James-square, and the way before
him was a path of pleasure. How changed was
Londoubridge! To his boyhood it had been a
mass of smoked, grimed stone: and now it seemed
a shape of grace and beauty. He looked, too, at
the thousand ships that, wherever the sea rolled,
with mute gigantic power told the strength, the
wealth, and enterprise of England. lie looked,
and would not think of the convict craft, laden
with crimes, and wrong, and blasphemy, that had
borne him to his doom. He passed alohg, through
Lombard-street to the bank; and he paused and
smiled as he thought of the time when the place
seemed to him a place of awful splendor; a visible
heaven, and they he thought who went for moneys
there, angels ascending and descending; and
above all, what a glory it would be to hima fame
surpassing all burglarious renownto rob that
Bank of England. And then he saw the Mansion-
house; and thought of the severe and solemn
alderman ~vho had sentenced him to Bridewell.
And then St. Giles passed along Cheapside, and
stood before St. Pauls church; and then for the
first time felt somewhat of its tremendous beauty.
It had been to him a mere mountain of stone, with
a clock upon it: and now, he felt himself subdued,
refined, as the cathedral, like some strange har-
ninny, sank into his soul. He thought, too, of
Christ and the fishermen and teutmakers Christ
had glorifiedfor he had learned to read of them
when a felon in the wildernessand his heart
glowed with Christian fervor at Christs temple
that visible glory made and dedicated to the pur-
poses of the Great Teachermost mighty in his
gentleness, most triumphant by his endurance,
most adorable by the charity that he taught to
men, as the immortal link to hold them still to
God! Could expression have breathed upon the
thoughts oUSt. Giles, thus he might have delivered
himself, lie spoke not: but stood gazing at the
church, and thinking what a blessing it was upon
a land, wherein temples for such purposes abound-
ed; where solemn men set themselves apart from
the sordid ways of life, keeping their minds calm
and undefiled from the chink and touch of money-
bags, to heed of nothing but the fainting, bleeding,
erring hearts of those who had dwelt upon the
earth as though the earth had never a grave.
Yes; it was a blessing to breathe in such a land.
It was a destiny demanding a daily prayer of
thankfulness, to know that Christian charity was
preached from a thousand and a thousand pulpits;
to feel tjaat the spirits of the apostles, their earnest,
truthful spirits, (ere solemnized by inspiration,)
still animated bishops, deans, and rectors; and
even cast a glory on the worn coats of how many
thousand curates! St. Giles, the returned trans-
portthe ignorant and sinning man: St. Giles,
whose innocence of childhood had been offered to
the Mol~ch selfishness of societyeven St. Giles
felt all tliis ; and with swelling heart and the tears
in his throat, passed down Ludgate-hill, with a
fervent devotion, thanking hi Ged who ha
brought him from the land of cannibals to the land
of Christians.
And now is St. Giles aroused by a stream of
people passing upward and downward, and as
though led by one purpose turning into the Old
Bailey. What s this crowd about l he asked
of one, and crc he was answered, he saw far down
at Newgate door a scaffold and a beam; and a
mass of human creatures, crowded like bees, gaz-
ing upon them. Whats this? again asked St.
Giles, and he felt the sickness of death upon hirti.
Whats this B answered a fellow with a
sneering leer Why, where do you come from
to ask that~ Why, its king Georges new drop,
and this is the first day he s going to try it. No
more hanging at Tyburn now; no more drinks of
ale at the Pound. It s all now to be the matter
of a minute, they say. But it will never answer,
it never does; any of these new-fangled things.
Nothing like the old horse and cart, take my word
for it. Besides, all London could see something
of the show when they went to Tyburn, while
next to nobody can be accommodated in the Old
Bailey. But it serves me right. If I had nt got
so precious drunk last night, I d been up in time
to have got a place near the gallows. Silence!
There goes eight oclock.
And as the hour was struck by the bells of
Christian churchesof churches built in Christs
name, who conquered vengeance by charitymen
were led forth to be strangled by men, their last
moments soothed and made hopeful by Christs
clergyman. Indeed, it is long and hard teaching,
to make nations truly read the Testament they
boast of.
There was a sudden hush among the crowd;
and St. Giles felt himself rooted where he stood
with gaping month, and eyes glaring towards
Newgate. The criminals, trussed for the grave,
came out. Onetwothreefourfivesix
seven-cried St. Giles in a rising scream,
numbering the wretches as each passed to his
place eightninetenGood God ! how ma-
nyland terror-stricken, he could count no fur-
ther.
And then the last nights bacchanal next St.
Giles, took up the reckoning, counting as he would
have counted so many logs of wood, so many sacks
of coals. Eightnineteneleventwelve
thirteenfourteenfifteen. That s all; yes, it
was to be fifteen : that little chap s the last. Fif-
teen.
Reader, pause a moment. Drop not the book
with sudden indit~nation at the writer who, to
make the ingredients of his story thick and slab,
invents this horror. No; he but copies from the
chronicles of the Old Bailey. Turn to them, in-
credulous reader, and you will find that on the
balmy morning of the twenty-third of June, in the
year of our Offended Lord, one thousand seven
hundred and eighty-four, fifteen human beings
were hanged in front of Newgate: death-offerings
to the laws and virtuesofmerryEngland. It was
the first day, too, of the new drop; and the novel
engine must be greeted with a gallant number.
Fame has her laurels: why should not Justice
have her ropes? There was, too, a pleasantry
the devil, if he joke at all, mtist joke after some
such fashionin trying the substance and capacity
of a new gallows, by so much weight of human
flesh convulsed in the death-struggle. And so
great was the legislative wit !there were fifteen THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 13
to be atrangled. A great example this to an
erring, law-breaking world ofthe strength of
timber!
The lords of the privy council had met, with
good king George the Third at their head, to cor-
rect the vices of the land. There was death for
the burglardeath for the footpaddeath for the
sheep-stealerdeath, death, death for a hundred
different sinners. The hangman was the one
social physician, and was thought to cure all pec-
cant ills. Horrible, ghastly quack! And yet the
kings majesty believed in the hideous mounte-
bank, and every week, by the advice of his lords
of the councilthe wise men of St. James, the
magi of the kingdom, the starred ,iid gartered
philosophers and phiai thropistsevery week did
sacred royalty call in Jack Ketch to cure his soul-
sick children! Yea; it was with the hangman s
fingers, that the father of his people touched the
Peoples Evil. And if in sooth the malady was
not allayed, it was for no lack of l)aternal tending,
since we find in the Old Bailey Registerthat
thing of blood, and bigotry, and ignorancethat,
in one little year, in almost the first twelvemonth
of the new drop, the hangman was sent to ninety-
six wretches, who were publicly cured of their
ills in the front of Newgate! And the king in
council thought there was no such remedy for
crime as the grave; and therefore, by the counsel
of his privy sages, failed not to prescribe death-
warrants. To reform man was a tedious and un-
certain labor: now hanging was the sure work of
a minute.
Oh, that the ghosts of all the martyrs of the Old
Baileyand, though our profession of faith may
make some moral antiquarians stare, it is our in-
vincible belief that the Newgate calendar has its
black array of martyrs; victims to ignorance, per-
verseness, prejudice; creatures doomed by the
bigotry of the council table; by the old haunting
love of blood as the best cure for the worst ills ;
Oh, that the faces of all of these could look from
Newgate walls! that but for a moment the men
who stickle for the laws of death, as for some
sweet household privilege, might behold the
grim mistake; the awful sacrilegious blunder of
the past; and seeing, making amendment for the
future.
A few minutes, and fifteen human creatures,
sanctified with immortal souls, were carcases.
The wisdom of the king and lords in council was
tnade manifest to the world by fifteen scare-crows
to guilt, pendent and swaying to and fro. A few
minutes, and the heart of London, ay of the Old
Bailey, beat equably as before. The criminals
were hanged, cut down, and the mob separated
only to meetif it should again please the wisdom
of the king in councilfor a like show on the
next Monday; Saint Monday being, in the good
old hempen times, the hangmans special saints-
day.
The sufferers were scarcely dead, when St.
Giles staggered like a drunken man from the
crowd. He made his way down Ludgate-hill, and
sick and reeling, proceeded up Fleet-street. He
saw, he felt, that people stared at hint; and the
thought that lie was an escaped felonthat if dc-
tected he would as surely rehearse the bloody
scene, as surely as those fifteen corses scarce done
strugglingseemed to wither him. He stumbled
against a post; then, for a moment gathering
energy for the effort, he turned up Shoe-lane, and
entered a public-house. A mug of water., mas-
ter ; he asked of the landlord.
It s a liquor we dont sell, said the host,
and I cant afford to give it away. Water! I
should think a dram of brandy would be better for
your complaint. Why, you look like a blue-
bag. Got no catching-sickness, I hope? If so,
be so good as to go to another house. I ye
never yet had a days illness, and I dont intend to
have.
Nothing but a little faint, master. I passed,
just now, by the Old Bailey, andand it s been
too much for me.
Well, you must have a coddled sort of heart,
you must. I should have gone myself, only I
could nt leave the bar; for they dont hang
fifteen every day, andwhy, if now you aint
as white as if you d run from the gallows your-
self.
Water, masterwater, cried St. Giles
and for the brandy, I 11 take that afterwards.
Better take it first, said the landlord, but
that s your business. Well, I should nt much
like such customers as you, he added, as St.
Giles hastily quaffed the lymph. Now, do take
some of the real stuff; or, with that cold rubbish,
you 11 give yourself the aygur ; and the host
pressed the brandy.
In a minute; I 11 just sit down a bit, said
St. Giles, and taking the brandy, he entered a
side-room. It was empty. Seating himself, with
the untasted liquor before him, he again saw the
vision that had appalled and rooted him in the Old
Bailey. He could swear to it; it was clear to his
eye as his own hand. All but himself had beheld
fifteen felons on the drop, but he had seen sixteen;
and the last, the sixteenth, was himself; yes, if in
a glass he had ever seen himself. True; it was
but a visionbut a vision that foreshadowed a hor-
rid truth. lie had escaped from captivity to be
hanged for the crime. All the bright promises of
the morning had vanished, and, in the bitterness
of his thoughts, he already sat in the gloom of
Newgate. Thus sunk in misery, lie was uncon-
scious of the entrance of a visitor, who, in a few
moments, startled him with a greeting.
Been to the jug, mate ? A cruel fine day to
be hanged on, isnt it? asked the new-coiner.
St. Giles looked at the speak~r, who suddenly
recoiled from his glance, as from the glare of some
wild beast. Why, what s the matter? asked
the man. Do you think you 11 know me again,
that you stare in that way? Perhaps, you do
know me?
Not at all, friend; not at all; though ceming
suddenly, you startled me a little at first. But
instantly, St. Giles recognized his old master and
tempter. Tom Blast. Vice had cut still deeper
lines in his wicked face; time had crowned him
with its most horrid crown, grey hairs ~ipon a
guilty head; time sat heavily upon his back, yet
St. Giles knew his early tutor; knew the villain
who had snared his boyhood, making him a
doomed slave for his natural life. Fierce thoughts
rose in the heart of St. Giles, as he gazed upon
the traitor who had sold him: a moment, and he
could have dipped his hands in that old mans
blood; another instant and he looked upon him
with compassion, with deepest pity. The villain
saw the change, and took new confidence.
It s lucky times for you, mate, if you can
tipple brandy. If I ye had nothing but five-
farthing beer since Tuesday, may I be pisoned !
You may have this, for me, said St. Giles,
and he gave Blast the brandy, which the old knave
greedily swallowed. 14 THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
Should like to meet with one of your sort
every day, cried Blast, smacking his lips.
Never saw your like afore.
Jndeed B asked St. Giles, who, from the tone
and manner of Blast, felt himself secure of dis-
covery. Indeed1
No, never. You could nt tell me where I
could see you to-morrow 3 asked Blast.
Why, where may you be foundwhere do
you live B questioned St. Giles, quickly.
Oh, I live at Horsleydown ; but I so like the
look o you, mate, I II meet you here, answered
Blast. I m agreeable to anything.
Very well, said St. Giles, say at twelve
o clock; we 11 have another glass. Stay, you
can have another now ; here ~s sixpence for the
treat. I must go ; ~ood bye ; and St. Giles was
hurrying away, when Blast seized him by the
hand, and whilst our hero shrunk and shook at his
touch, swore that he was a good fellow, and a
regular king. St. Giles releasing himself, re-
treated quickly from the house, casting frequent
looks behind that he might not be followed by his
former friend, whom, it was his hope, despite of
the engagement of the morrow, never to behold
~gain. Nevertheless, St. Giles had yearned to
have some further speech with Blast. Half-a-
dozen tunes the words were at his lips, and then
the fear of the chance of detection kept him dumb.
And then again he repented that he had not risked
the peril, that he might at once have known the
fate of his mother. He had heard no word of her.
XVas she dead Remembering what was her life,
he almost hoped so. Yet she was the only crea-
ture of his blood; and, if still living, it would be
to him some solacesomething to link him anew
to herto snatch her old age from the horrors that
defiled it. With these thoughts, St. Giles took
his way up the Strand, and feeling a strange
pleasure in the daring, was 500fl in Bow-street.
lie approached the office: the judgment-seat
where he was arraigned for his maiden theft.
There at the door, playing with his watch-chain
with almost the same face, the same cut clothes,
the same flower in his mouth, of fifteen years be-
forestood Jerry Whistle, officer and prime thief-
taker. A sort of human blood-hound, as it seemed
expressly fashioned by madam nature, to watch
and seize on evil-doers. He appeared to be sent
into this world with a peculiar nose for robbers;
scenting them throuoh all their doublings, though
they should put seas between him and them. And
Jerry performed his functions with such extreme
good-humor, seized upon a culprit with such great
good-nature, that it appeared ii possible that death
should end a ceremony so cordially began. Jerry
Whistle would take a man to Newgate as to a
tavern: a place wherein human nature might with
the fattest and the strongest enjoy itself.
As St. Giles approached Whistle, he thought
that worthy officer, learned as he was in human
countenances, eyed him with a look of remem-
brance; whereupon, with a wise boldness, St.
Giles stepped up to him, and asked the way to
Seven Dials. Straight ahead, roy tulip, and ask
a gain, said Jerry; and he continued to suck his
pink and chink his watch-chain.
In a few minutes, St. Giles was in Shorts Gar-
dens. He looked upwards at the third floor;
where his first friend, Mrs. Anniseed, had carried
him to her gentle-hearted lord, Bright Jem. It
was plain they were tenants there no longer. The
windows, always bright, were crusted with dust;
two were broken, and patched with paper. And
there was no flower-pot, with its three-pennywortli
of nature from Covent-garden ; no singing-bird.
St. Giles, with a sinking of the heart, passed on.
It was plain he had lost a part of something that,
in his hours of exile, had made England so fair a
land of promise to him. He turned his steys
towards Seven Dials. He would look at the shop
of the muffin-maker: of course he could not make
himself knownat least not just nowto that
sweet-and-bitter philanthropist, Capstick : but it
would be something to see how time had dealt
with him. A short space, and St. Giles ap-
proached the door; the very threshold he had
crossed with basket and bell. Capstick had de-
parted ; no muffin graced the window. The shop
was tenanted by a small undertaker; a tradesman
who had to biggIe with the poor for his price of
laying that eye-sore, poverty, in the arms of the
maternal earth who, least partial of all mothers,
treats her offspring all alike. Can he be dead 3
thought St. Giles, for the moment unconsciously
associating his benefactor with the emblems of
mortality; as though death had come there, and
edged the muffin-maker out. Ere he could think
another thought, St. Giles stood in the shop. The
master, whistling a jig of the time, was at his
work, driving tin tacks into a babys coffin. The
pawnbroker would have another gowna blanket,
it might befor these tin tacks; but that was
nothing: why should wealth claim all the pride
of the world, even where pride is said to leave us
at the grave 3
Do you know whether Mr. Capsticks alive B
asked St. Giles of the whistling workman.
Cant say, I m sure, answered the under-
taker. I only know I ye not yet had the luck
of burying him.
I mean the muffin-maker, who lived here
before you, said St. Giles; you knew him 3
I ye heard of him, but never seen himnever
want. He was a tailor as was ruined last here.
I say,cried the undertaker, with an intended
joke in his eye I say, you dont want anything
in my way 3
St. Giles, making no answer, stept into the
street. He then paused. Should he go forward 3
He should have no luck that day, and he would
seek no further. And while he so determined, he
moved towards his native nookthe fetid, filthy
corner in which he first smelt what was called the
air. He walked towards Hog Lane.
Again and again did he pass it. Again and
again did he approach St. Giles Church, and
gaze upon the clock. It was only ten ; too early
he was sure of thatto present himself in St.
James square. Otherwise he would first go there,
and return to the lane under cover of the night.
He then crossed the way, and looked up the lane.
He saw not a face he knew. All he had left were
dead ; and new tenants, other wretches, fighting
against want, and gin, and typhus, were preparing
new loam for the church-yard. No : he would not
seek now. lie would come in the eveningit
would be the best time, the verybest.
With this feeling, St. Giles turned away, and
was proqeeding slowly onward, when he paused at
a shop-window. in a moment, he felt a twitch at
his pocket, and turning, he saw a child of some
eight or ten years old, carrying away a silk hand-
kerchief that Becky, in exchange for the huswife,
had forced upon him. How sudden, and how
great was St. Giles indignation at the villainTIlE HISTOBAr OF Sl~. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
thief! Never had St. Giles felt so strongly virtu-
ous! The pigmy felon flew towards Hog Lane;
and in a moment, St. Giles followed him and stood
at the threshold of the house wherein the thief had
taken shelter. St. Giles was about to enter, when
he was suddenly stopt hy a manthat man was
Tom Blast.
Well, if this is n~t luck ! said Blast spread-
ing himselt in the door-way, to secure the retreat
of the thief. Who d ha thought we should ha
met so soon?
All s one for that, said St. Giles. I ye
been robbed, and the young thiefs here, and you
know it.
A thief here! Mind what you re about,
young man: do mind what you say, afore you
take away the character of a honest house.
We ye nothin here but our good name to live
upon, and so do mind what you re about. And
Blast uttered this with such mock earnestness,
looked so knowingly in the face of St. Giles, that,
unconsciously, he shrank from the speaker, who
continued: Is it likely now, that you could
think anybody in this lane would pick a gentle-
mans pocket Bless your heart! we re all so
honest here, we are, and Blast laughed.
I thought you told me, said St. Giles, con-
fused, that you lived somewhere away at Hors-
leydown.
Lor love you! folks as are poor like us have,
you know, a dozen town-houses; besides country
ones under hedges and hay-stacks. We can easily
move about: we have nt much to stop us. And
now, to busi~ness. You ye really lost your hand-
kercher ?
Tisnt that I care about it, said Giles,
only you see t was given me by somebody.
Given! To be sure. Folks do give away
things, dont they All the world s gone mad, I
think; people do so give away.~ St. Giles heart
fell at the laughing, malignant look with ~vhich
Blast gazed upon him. It was plain that he was
once again iii the hands of his master; again in the
power of the devil that had first sold him. How-
somever, continued Blast, if you ye really
been robbed, and the thiefs in this house, shall I
go and fetch a officer? You dont think, sir, do
youand Blast grinned and bowed his head
you dont think, sir, as how I d pertect anybody
as had broke the laws of my native land Is it
likely Only say the word. Shall I go for a
officer?
No; never mindit does nt matter. Still,
I ye a fancy for that handkercher, and will give
more than its worth for it.
Well, that s like a nobleman, that is. Here,
Jingo ! cried Blast, stepping a pace or two into
the passage, and bawling his lustiest Jingo,
here s the genleman as has lost the handkercher
you found; bring it down, my beauty. Obedient
to the command, a half-naked childwith the
very look and manner of St. Giles former self
instantly appeared, with the stolen goods in his
hand. He s sich a lucky little chap, this is,
said Blast nothin s lost hereabout, that he
doesnt find it. Give the fogle to the genlenian;
and who knows? perhaps, he 11 give you a
guinea for it. The boy obeyed the order, and
stood with open hand for reward. St. Giles was
about to bestow a shilling, when Tom Blast sidled
towards him, and in an affected tone of confidence
said Could nt think o letting you do sich a
thin.
And why not I asked St. Giles, becoming
more and more terrified at the bold familiarity of
the ruffian. Why not I
T is nt right; not at all proper; not at all
what I call natral and here Blast whispered in
St. Giles ear that money should pass atween
brothers.
Brothers ! cried St. Giles.
Ha, sir ! said Blast, taking his former man
ncr you dont know what a woman that Mrs.
St. Giles was! She was a good soul, was nt she?
You must know that her little boy fell in trou-
ble about a pony; and then lie was in Newgate,
being made all right for Tyburn, jist as this little
feller was born. And then they took and trans-
ported young St. Giles; and he never seed his
mothernever know d nothin that she d gut a
little baby.
And she s dead ! cried St. Giles.
And, this I will say, answered Blast, coin-
fortably buried. She was a good soultoo good
for this world. You didnt know St. Giles, did
you? said Blast with a laugh.
Why do you ask? replied the trembling trans-
port.
Because if you did, you must see the likeness.
Come here, Jingo, and Blast laid one hand upon
the urchins head, and with the other pointed out
his many traits of resemblance. There s the
same eye for a foglethe same nosethe same
everything. And oh, is nt he fond o ponies,
neither! just like his poor dear brother as is far
away in Botany Bay. Dont you see that he ~s
the very spit on him B cried Blast.
I cant say; how should I know l answered
St. Giles, about to hurry off; and then he felt a
strange interest in the victim, and paused and
asked Who takes care of him, now his mo-
thers gone?
He has nt a friend in the world but me,
said Blast.
God help him ! thought St. Giles.
And Ithough you d never think itcon-
tinued Blast, I love the little varmint, jist as
much as if I was his own father.
EARLY AssocmArloNsIt is said that at that period
of his life when the consequences of his infatuated
conduct had fully developed themselves in unforeseen
reverses, Napoleon, driven to the necessity of defend-
ing himself within his own kingdom, with the shat-
tereml remnant of his army, had taken up a position
at Brienne, the very spot where he had received the
rudiments of his early education, when, unexpectedly,
and while he was anxiously employed in a practical
application of those military principles which first
exercised the energies of his young mind in the col-
lege of Brienne, his attention was arrested by the
sound of the church clock. The pomp of his impe-
rial court, and even the glories of Maren~o and of
Austerlitz, faded for a moment from his regard, and
almost from his recollection. Fixed for a while mc~
the spot on which he stood, in motionless attention to
the well-known sound, he at length gave utterance
to his feelings, and condemned the tenor of all his
subsequent life, by confessing that the hours them
brought back to his recollection were happier than
any he had experienced throughout the whole cours
of his tempestuous career.Kidd.
15APPROACHING CRISIS.
From the Spectator, 30 Au~ust
APPROACHING CRISIS.
IN a very useful paper, this morning, the Times
raises a note of warning against the dangerous
excess of the speculation in railway affairs; sup-
plying some striking facts, which show that the
real excess is even greater than it appears, more
beyond the control of the discreetest among the
speculators, and more menacing in its conse-
quences. Although the subject has already been
discussed in the ~S~pectator, we do not scruple to
give our readers an abridgment of tile observa-
tions coming from so important a coadjutor.
We have carefully investigated the amount
of capital embarked in railways, the utimber of
shares in the market, and the value of the pre-
minnie upon them. It appears that 44 companies
have been formed during the last twelve months;
of which the total capital engaged is 35,510,0001.,
the number of shares is 1,086,650, and the total
value of the premiums on those shares as quoted
is 3,559,0001.
We find, further, that there are 58 compa-
nies, of which, although neither the number of
shares, nor their nominal amount, nor the amount
paid up is stated, yet the premiums of such as are
quoted (and they are not many) give an average
premium of 61. per share: but, adopting as the
basis of calculation the facts which appear as to
the 44 companies of which the details are before
us, we may assume that the capital embarked in
these 58 companies is 46,490,0001., the number
of shares 1,413,000, and the value of premiums is
4,641,0001. We know further, from the General
Share List, that the rise in the price of shares
in the 27 companies which have existed more
than a year, amounts on the whole to 13,491,-
0001.; the number of shares in such companies
exceeding 9,100,000; the total result, then, is,
that the number of railway-shares which are the
subject of speculation is as follows
In 27 old companies 9,100,000
In 44 companies established within
twelve months, . . . . . 1,086,650
In 58 new companies 1,413,000
Making a total of shares of . . 11,599,650
The rise of price or premium on which amounts to
15,990,0001. The capital required for the 102
companies in the second and third classes alone
amounts to not less than 82,000,0001.; but in ad-
dition. to this, which has reference only to rail-
ways in the United Kingdom, we are aware of
the names of not less than 20 foreign railways, of
which shares to the amount of 10,100,0001. are in
the London market alone. On account of these
latter, remittances have already been made to the
continent to an amount of 3,000,0001.; and it is
impossible fo estimate the probable remittances in
twelve months to come at less than 10,000,0001.
of money. It is difficult, indeed, to assign limits
to the extent to which demands may be made here
with reference to foreign railways; for as the
laws of Belgium prohibit the sale of any share in
a railway until the works are completed and the
operations on the railroad commenced, there is a
manifest inducement to the speculator in that
country to extend, by every possible means,
transactions in this country which in his own are
effectually prevented.~
The printed list returned to the House of Coin-
mons,of persons holding shares in the spveral
railways submitted to parliament, to an amount
exceeding 2,0001., which includes women and
subordinates in official situations as subscribers
for such enormous sums as 50,0001. to 600,0001.,
shows how few are possessed of the means to
realize their engagements. The list of subscri-
bers under 2,0001. would very likely prove to be
equally fictitious; and speculations in foreign rail-
ways stand in the same category. From these
facts two circumstances are evidentfirst, that
the demand for payments on shares of foreign rail-
ways must create at an early period a pressure on
the money-market of this country; and secondly,
that, independently of such a drain for foreign re-
mittance, the sums required for the fulfilment of
domestic engagements exceed the surplus capital
properly applicable to such purposes, and can only
be supplied, if supplied at all, by an extensive
sale of other securities.
Moreover, in the temporary absence of restriction
occasioned by the postponement of the bill for
regulating joint-stock banks in Scotland, advan-
tage has been taken to establish in that country
joint-stock banks on dangerous principles, the
profits of which are mainly to depend upon ad-
vances to be made upon the security of railway
shares.
How far these facts differ from those recorded
in the history of the South Sea bubble of 1720,
excepting in the absence of encouragement from
the government, the reader may judge. Those
even who deem themselves moderate in their
speculations may be dragged into the vortex by
the recklessness of others, who, without capital,
exist on the probability of an advance in prices,
and in their efforts to promote that advance are
hastening the explosion. If evidence of such
results, taken from later times, be required, we
might safely refer to the periods of 18256 and
18356. At both periods inordinate speculations,
by means of commercial companies in the one
case, and by investments in foreign securities in
the other, led to disasters frona which the country
did not recover for some years afterwards.
From such grievous disasters we believe that
there is yet time to escape, if those who hold high
stations in the commercial world will only decid-
edly discountenance this speculative gambling by
not accepting as security fictitious railway stock,
and by ~vithholding their countenance as well as
their credit from those who are engaged in such
hazardous transactions.
A SOMEWHAT novel incident occurred very re-
cently at the terminus of the South-western Rail-
way at Vauxhall. A carrier-pigeon was seen in
an exhausted state; it was can ght by hand, but
died shortly afterwards. A label was appended to
one of its legs, addressed to his Grace the Duke
of Wellington, which stated that three pigeons
were thrown up at the island of Ichaboc, and bore
date July, 1845. The distance is computed to be
between two and three thousand miles from the
place where the pigeon appears to have been lib-
erated, to its destination in London. The bird,
with its appendage, was immediately forwarded to
Apsley House; and the Duke of Wellington, byan
autograph note, the next day courteously acknowl-
edged the receipt from the party who sent the bird.
It has been stuffed; and in the process it has been
discovered that the bird was shot, otherwise there
can be no doubt it would have reached home; and
it is supposed not to have had strength to cross
the Thames. Correspondent of the Morning Post.
16THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH IN GERMANY.
THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH IN GERMANY.
Too little is known in this country of Ronge,
Czersky, and their followers, to supply materials
for an estimate of the character and importance of
the new schism in the Roman Catholic Church of
Germany. But the sect is probably strong and
increasing, since the mob have betaken themselves
to break windows and pelt princes in its behalf;
that being the test by which governments in all
ages have agreed to measure the reality and inten-
sity of religious or political enthusiasm.
To those who have paid attention to the progress
of opinion among the Roman Catholics of Germany
for the last half-century, the defection of Ronge,
and the apparently rapid progress of his doctrines,
are not surprising. His secession is no unprepared
or isolated event; it is rather the natural conse-
quence of a number of preparatory incidents. About
1798, the priest Becker of Paderborn (Westphalia)
was imprisoned by order of his ecclesiastical supe-
riors, the Prebends of the Cathedral. He never
was brought to trial: the prime bishop and his
councillors felt that a rash step had been taken,
and connived at the old mans escape into a secular
and Protestant territory. The rest of his life was
wasted in litigation with those who incarcerated
but dared not bring a definite charge against him.
Extracts (MS.) from his journal, written in con-
finement, are in our possession; and it indicates
his offence with sufficient clearness. He had been
in the habit of instituting Sunday schools; he had
expressed a conviction that the religious proces-
sions of both sexes from village to village with the
images of saints, in the course of which liquor was
offered to the pilgrims at every farm-house and
accepted by them, were productive of indecorums
and graver offences against morality; he was in-
volved in a controversy with other priests on the
relative importance of such formal observances and
the observance of moral duties; discouraged by
his superiors, in the heat of argument he did not
scruple to glance at the gallantry and general lax-
ity of the prebends who owed their stalls to their
quarterings ; and finally, he spoke of Luther
as a great man, whose rebellion against the church
was extenuated by the abuseh against which he
had struggled in vain. At that time and since,
there have been not a few Beckers among the
inferior Roman Catholic clergy, scattered through
Germany, uninfluential because they had no com-
munication with each other, and because their
superiors judiciously refrained from persecuting
them. There was another powerful element at
work to modify the creed of the German adherents
of the Italian Church. Under the empire, ecclesi-
astical electors and other prelates possessing secu-
lar jurisdiction necessarily had each his staff of
secular councillors. Like almost all the literary
class of their country, the ablest and most ener-
getic of these men were about the beginning of
the pre*ment century disciples of the French Revo-
lutionary school of politics; and more than one of
the dignified clergy themselves had leanings that
way. At the disruption of the empire, an elector
of Mayence did not scruple to take upon him the
office of F~irst Primas of the confederation of the
Rhine. Under the protection of these free-think-
ing dignitaries and their councils, latent dissent
within the church continued to gain ground. The
personal impunity with which Hermes, Van Eck,
and others have disseminated their neological opin-
ions, and the persevering clamorous urgencyof the
Silesian priesthood to be allowed to take unto
themselves wives, with many other local phainom-
ena of a kindred character, have long convinced
the observant that reform (or innovation) from
within was at hand in the German province of the
Romish Church. Rouge and Czersky, like most
other ecclesiastical and political reformers, are
little more than accidentsthe local weather-flaw,
that becomes, in an atmosphere saturated with
electricity, the nucleus of a storm.
What direction the movement will takewhat
consequences it will lead tomay admit, in the
quaint language of the author of Urn Burial, of
a wide conjecture. Its more immediate effects
in Germany will possibly disturb the territorial
relations and balance of power in the confederacy.
The reigning house in Saxony appears to have
opposed itself with keen partisanship to the Ger-
man Catholics. The proselytizing spirit of these
princes has long rendered them objects of jealousy
to the zealously Protestant people over whom they
reign. On the other hand, the Prussian govern-
ment appears to be countenancing the German
Catholics, with just enough of seeming reluctance
to take from neighbor princes any ground for
remonstrance. The Prussian government and the
royal house of Saxony are to all appearance
placing themselves at the heads of the opposing
parties. The relentless pertinacity with which
Prussia has for more than a hundred years kept
adding territory to territory, clearly indicates what
is likely to be, under these circumstances, the
result of any popular commotion; and the insult
offered to Prince John, and the blood shed by the
soldiers at Leipzig, may be the beginning of one.
In a few years, the remaining third* of the Saxon
Electorate may be annexed to Prussia.
But it is not likely that the effects of the move-
ment among the Roman Catholics of Germany will
be confined to that country. Though diffused over
many lands, the Roman Catholic Church is one
body; a disturbance in any part of it vibrates
immediately through the whole. In certain states
of the public opinion of the church, it is peculiarly
liable to be weakened by assaults like that of
Rouge. It is not easy to parry an argument that
appeals to the evidence of the senses. Many who
would pay little attention to abstract reasoning
against the miraculous virtues of the holy coat of
Treves, are shaken when they are told that there
are actually three holy coats in existence, all pos-
sessed of equal virtues. By persisting to attribute
infallibility to the office of priest, (if not to the
office-bearer,) the Romish Church lays itself bare
to attacks which cannot reach Protestant sects,
who attribute infallibility to Scripture alone, and
can always withdraw from an untenable position
under the cover of a misinterpretation. A Pro-
testant error weakens only the individual, a Ro-
man Catholic error weakens the church. The
effects of a controversy like that raised by Rouge
can be confined to the country or district in which
it originates only when the Roman Catholics of
other countries are not predisposed to controversy.
But over most part of Europe they are at this
moment so predisposed. In Switzerland, the
Jesuit controversy has opened a door to the secta-
ries of Rouge. In France, the University contro-
versy has had the same effect. In Belgium, the
priests have not always used the influence wisely
* A German compendium of Geography says, The
present Kingdom of Sazony consists of about one third
of the former Electorate.
1718 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCRLLANI~SBEGINNtNG OF THE END~
which the Revolution threw into their hands. In
Ireland, the MHales and Hig~enses are not ill-
adapted to be precursors of some Irish Ronge;
and the ardor of some ecclesiastical repealers is
likely enough to predispose the Catholic aristoc-
racy to a schism. As at the time of the Lutheran
Reformation, the Italian priesthood will in all
probability make it a question of national ascend-
ancy in the church; and Austria, from fear of all
innovation, will support them. In Italy and the
Austrian dominions, the schism is least likely to
be felt; though in the latter, German Catholicism
may find a point dappui in Trarisylvania, while in
the more sequestered districts of Moravia and Bo-
hemia the traditional influence of the doctrines of
the Moravian Brothers and John of Huss may not
yet be utterly extinct.
The progress of this new sect is a matter of
general interest; for it may alter the relations of
internal parties in most European states, and
diminish or increase the territories of leading mem-
hers of the great European confederation.
Biographical and Critical Miscellanies. By WIL-
LIAM H. PazscoTr, author of The History
of Ferdinand and Isabella, & c.
WITH the exception of a life of Brown the
novelist, written for Sparks American Biography,
this volume consists of a dozen articles by Mr.
Prescott, originally published in the North Ameri-
can Review. The collection has probably origi-
nated in the success which has attended the same
kind of reprint in the cases of Sydney Smith,
Macaulay, and Jeffrey; hut Mr. Prescotts reviews
seem unlikely to attract similar attention in a col-
lected shape. The article is the form in which the
three writers just mentioned gave their principal
prose productions to the world; not surely by
accident, or to meet the market for periodical
literature, but because their genius and their habits
induced them to throw their best thoughts into that
particular style of composition. Mr. Prescotts
strength lies in another and perhaps a higher line;
and these reviews and notices strike us as being
rather effusions than studies. It is not to be in-
ferred from this remark that they are crude or
careless, in despite of the authors intimation that
he so esteems them; but that he has not thrown
himself into them with all his heart and with all
his strength, which are exhibited to most advan-
tage in another direction. Indeed, the very ex-
cellence of these papers for their original place
less adapts them for another. They are strictly
notices, especially where the book is new;
containing an account of the subject, abridged,
condensed, or distilled from the work under notice
general remarks, perhaps common-places,
upon the subject and its correlatives, where such
matter is in placeand a criticism upon the book
or hero of the biography, always good-natured and
mostly brief. But there is none of that sublimated
and searching sense mingled with the scorching
facetiousness which gave originality and perma-
nence to the views of Sydney Smith, and pre-
served them by a salt not Attic but his own. We
have looked in vain for the florid brilliancy of nar-
rative, disquisition, or illustration, mingled with
exaggeration in fact and perhaps paradox in con-
clusion, which give such force and spirit to Ma-
caulays articles, whether putting forward his own
views or dressing up the matter he conveys
from his author. In the general characteristics of
the notice, Mr. Prescott has more in common with
Jeffrey but there is not the refined and critical
acumen with the delicate sarcasm, which distin-
guished the editor of the Edinburgh; neither are
the subjects always so interesting, at least they
are not treated so largely or so broadlySpec-
tator.
THE BEGINNING OF THE END.
RECaLEss speculators, when their hills were
about to fall due, have been known to draw other
bills for larger sums, discount them at a loss, and
meet the present liability by incurring a greater at
no distant period. Financial operations of tlfs
kind have been generally understood to indi-
cate the desperation of men whose career was near
a close.
If this symptom has been rightly interpretcd,
there is good ground to apprehend that the general
railway crash, which has been anxiously looked
forward to by many, cannot be far distant. The
parties who have speculated in shares beyond
their means are devising plans to raise money for
present use at the risk of increased liabilities for
the futureif not, indeed, plans for drawing
their own necks out of the noose and leaving
others dangling as Punch leaves the hangman.
Some ingenious Scotchmen are about to open
new joint-stock banks or loan companies, for the
purpose principally of making advances to assist
railway speculators, which the more cautious
established banks refuse; and in the prospectuses
of some of these companies, the names of gentle-
men who occupy conspicuous positions in the list
of parties holding railway shares to the amount of
20001. and upwards figure as directors. This is
not all the prospectuses intimate that the interim
directors are to retain the absolute management in
their hands for the first year; and that,as
most of the shares are already appropriated, offers
for those that have been reserved will only be
received from capitalists of unquestionable so-
lidity.
The conception of this scheme for raising the
wherewithal to pay inconvenient calls does honor
to the ingenuity of the contrivers. But the deli-
cate conception is spoiled by the bungling execu-
tion. The hint that none but parties with plenty
of cash will be received into the copartoery, and
that the management is to be left entirely in the
hands of the present partners, is rather too broad.
Jeremy Diddlers Sam you have not such a
thing as half-a-crown about you ? was a refined
finesse in comparison.
The private blower of wind-bills and flier of
kites does harm within a very limited sphere
but joint-stock banks, when the speculation mania
is rife, have a Warner~s long range of mis-
chief in them. It is consoling to reflect, that in
the present imistances recklessness of consequences
is not combined vith adequate skill of execution.
Spectator, August 30.
A BATCH of one-pound notes, amounting to 6321.,
was paid iiito the Bank on Friday week, by the
trustees to the will of James Satcherley, an old
man, (a beggar,) who died in a cellar at Shadwell
some weeks back. After his decease, the notes
and other moneys were found concealed, together
with a species of will, in a cupboard. The notes
must have been hoarded many years. WEATHELt-PANICS--PEItSIA. 19
WEATHER-PANICS.
THE moist and foggy climate of England is pro-
verbial with foreigners, and matter of half-melan-
choly joke with Englishmen themselves. The
perpetual verdure of our fields bespeaks us deni-
zens of a rainy zoneinhabitants of an intermit-
ting shower-bath. Our speech bewrayeth us; the
weather is ever uppermost in our thoughts, and
the first thing spoken of when friends meet.
Aquarius is our constellation.
The natives of such a clime might naturally be
imagined as exempt from fear of rain as Mephisto-
pheles alleges Faust, the sworn brother of the
Devil, ought to be from fear of fire. It is their ele-
ment, which they ought to know cannot harm them
or theirs. Yet they are as shy of rain as a kitten of
dew when it first ventures abroad of a morning.
England is a land where short crops occasionally
occur, but where the years of utter blight which
often lay other lands desolate are scarcely known:
despite our frequent wet, raw, and ungenial sum-
mers, within the memory of our fathers and fa-
thers fathers seed-time and harvest have not
failed. Yet to an Englishman a wet month of
July immediately conjures up visions of famine
with pestilence and bankruptcies in its train.
Burns was wrong when he said that they who are
constantly on poortiths brink are little terrified
by the sight: it is only those who are steeped in
it over head and ears who become resigned to their
fate. It is in those to whom a chance of emerg-
in g seems still open that the fear is strongest, to
which the thoughtless Dives and the desperate
Lazarus are alike inaccessible. And so with Eng-
lishmen and the weather. Were their climate one
in which no corn could grow, they would never
think of crops; and were it so genial that the crops
were always redundant, they would wax insensi-
ble to the blessing from sheer excess. But, living
in a region to which hope ever comes, and from
which fear never entirely departs, they abandon
themselves too readily to unmanly fears. They are
weather valetudinartans, a nation of Gratianos
the wind cooling their broth blows them to an
ague.
The public is slowly recovering from a sharp
paroxysm of this kind. During the last two or
three days it has been laid out to dry in the sun
and as it warms in the rays, it begins to admit that
Englishmen and English crops, like English frogs,
take a great deal of drowningSpectator, 23 v.
PERsIA.The Journal des D~bats contains a
letter from Tehran, giving arapid and highly fa-
vorable review of the reforms instituted by Feth-
Ali-Shah, the present King of Persia. One pas-
sage in the letter is especially interesting. Now
that complete harmony reigns between Persia and
the nei2hboring states, the king, seconded by
Hadji-Mirza-Agassi, [his former tutor and present
minister,] continues to ameliorate as much as pos-
sible the administration of all public offices. Fol-
lowing out the suggestions which have been made,
he has established in his palace a school for the
French language, in order to train interpreters and
translators. This instruction, which has been
intrusted to the first secretary-interpreter of the
king, will establish new ties of sympathy between
Persia and civilized Europe; it will become in
time a real normal school which will furnish a
machinery for all scientific pursuits. Already sev-
ral pupils of this school have been selected by the
king to follow the courses of anatomy, medicine,
and surgery professed by Mirza-Labal-Khan, a
French doctor in the service of Persia, and his
majestys first physician. The most distinguished
pupils will be sent to France, at the expense of
government, to complete their studies, and to com-
plete their knowledge of European civilization
Many of these young men, belonging to the first
families in the court of the shah, have already
arrived at Paris; where they will remain for four
or five years.
AN American writer, whose letter appears in
the M orial de Rou~n, describes a miracle of
mechanical science, of the wonderful if true
class. William Evans has resolved a problem,
which must overturn our present system of railway
and steam-boat propulsion. By means of enormous
compression, he has succeeded in liquifying atmos-
pheric air; and then a few drops only of some
chemical composition, poured into it, suffice to
make it resume its original volume with an elastic
force quite prodigious. An experiment on a large
scale has just been made. A train of twenty
loaded wagons was transmitted a distance of sixty
miles in less than an hour and a quarterthe
whole motive power being the liquid air enclosed
in a vessel of two gallons and a half measure; into
which fell, drop by drop, and from minute to
minute, the chemical composition in question.
Already subscriptions are abundant, and a society
is in course of formation. The inventor declares
that an ordinary packet-boat may make the pas-
sage from Philadelphia to llavre in eight days,
carrying a ton of this liquid air. A steani-engine
of six-horse-power will produce that quantity in
eight hours.
THE Constitutionnel mentions the discovery of a
remarkable cavern near Guelma, in Africa. This
cavern is formed in an immense calcareous rock,
and has but one entrance, which is to the north-
ward. It descends to a depth of 400 metres (the
metre is about a yard) below the surface of the
earth, by an inclined plane, the extreme length
1,200 metres. It is furnished with stalactites of
a thousand different forms, and the passage is im-
peded by huge blocks (if stone which have de-
tached themselves from the vault. But that which
contributes most to the interest of this immense
cavern, is the Latin inscriptions which are carved
near the entrance, and which belong to the early
ages of Christianity. Most of them are illegible;
however, among them may be very distinctly deci-
phered the name Donatus. No doobt, the first
Christians of Africa took refuge in this place dur-
ing the periods of persecution. The Arabs relate
the most absurd legends about it; and none of
them ever venture in, dreading to be seized by the
guardian genius who is supposed to dwell there.
However, the French, who explored it, succeeded
in persuading the Sheik Deradji-Ben-Kerad to
accompany them; previously to which, not a soul
is supposed to have disturbed the silence of it for
many centuries.
IN one of Mr. Hoskens granite quarries, near
Penryn, the other day, says the Faimoutli Packet,
a fine mass of granite, which admeasures about
14,000 cubic feet, its weight above 1,000 tons, was
detached from the surrounding rock by means of
a charge of twenty-five pounds of gunpowder. In
the explosion, the entire mass was distinctly seen
to leap from its natural bed.LETTERS PROM ITAIX.
Prom the Examiner.
Letters from Italy. By J. T. HEADLEY. Wiley
and Putnam.
THIS is a very droll book; a perfect picture of
young America swaggering about Italian towns,
with its hat exceedingly on one side, its hands in
its coat pockets, and snatches of an entirely un-
known tongue on its lips. The letters present
the uncommon feature of not having been origi-
nally written with a view to publication. Their
inditer is of opinion that they would very proba-
bly have been worse written if they had been.
in that case (though we question its possibility)
they would have been curiosities indeed. In the
authors own choice language, they would have
been calculated to corner the public pretty
considerably.
We must take leave to dicker with him,
however, (if he will allow us to adopt another of
his expressions,) on one or two slight points of
fact. We would venture to suggest that the cus-
tom which prevails among the washerwomen at
Genoa, for instance, of washing clothes in cold
water, and in streams and rivers, is not so much
attributable to the peculiar and special dearness of
fuel in that particular city, as to its being the
general practice throughout that small extent uf
country which lies between Paris and Sicily.
We have a confused recollection of having heard
or read that the Strada Nuova, the most remarka-
ble street in the same city of Genoa, is both level
and straight. The fame of the Roman church of
San Giovanni in Laterano has never reached us.
We carrie newly to the contemplation of a coin
called a scudi. The bajocca is also quite a novel
kind of currency. We have never heard of a
marble bridge across the Tiber, built by Michael
Angelo; though we think we have heard of a lit-
tle bridge and castle named after Saint Angelo,
who is not generally known to have been identi-
cal with the sculptor. The mazzro (so called,
perhaps, from having some connexion with the
mazzard; it being described by Mr. Headley as
the veil of a Genoese woman) is a garment we
should of all things like to behold ; the name
being singular, and, so far as we know, unique.
This entertaining traveller has many styles and
methods of communicating his information. Some-
times it is remarkably concise; as where he tells
us that Terracina is a dirty holethe women
blackguards, and the landlord a rascal. Some-
times it is of a rather contradictory nature; as
where he gives us to understand of a certain Com-
modore Morgan that he is every inch a sailor,
and consequently that his soldier-like bearing
attracts universal attention. Sometimes it is
poetical; as where he holds forth on a certain
lady (after calculating the value of her diamonds
in American dollars) to this agonizing effect;
I never saw a being float so through a saloon,
as if her body were a feather, and her soul the
zephyr that floated in it. Sometimes he dis-
plays a sanguine and a hopeful spirit; as when
he says of a certain cicerone, after a long con-
versation, he began to mistrust I was a sensible
man.
Mr. Headley takes occasion to observe that the
classic land has long been a portion of the
scholars dreams ; which would not have been
at all an original observation, if he had not meant
the dreams of himself. And undoubtedly his
~eholarship is of the dreamiest kind. He sutlo
cates the Younger Pliny in a fit of fatal curiosity
at Pompeii; and is reminded of nothing so much,
on the Appian Way, as of the efforts of the Pe-
lasgi to crush the infant empire!
But we liked to have forgotten, as Mr.
Headley says, two personal anecdotes, which
show how easily a modest traveller may confound
specialities with generalities. This is the first:
The other day I was leaning over the balcony
of our window at the hotel, watching the motley
groups that passed and repassed, and listening to
the strange Genoese jargon that every one seemed
to understand but myself, when my attention was
attracted by an elegantly dressed woman who was
sauntering leisurely along up the street that my
window faced. As she came near, her ey~ fell
on me, and, her curiosity apparently excited by
my foreign look, she steadily scrutinized me as
she approached. My appearance might have
been somewhat outr~, hut still I did not think it
was worth such a particular scrutiny, especially
from a lady. But she had not the slightest con-
cern about my thouohts on the matter. She
wished simply to gratify her own curiosity; so
when she had got within the most convenient
reconnoitering distance, she deliberately paused,
and lifting her quizzing-glass to her eye, coolly
scanned me from head to foot. When she had
finished, she quietly placed her glass in her belt,
and with a smile of self-satisfaction on her face,
walked on.
And this, the second
As I was once coming down from Mount
Vesuvius, I passed an Italian lady with her htis-
band, who, by their attendants, I took for persons
of distinction. I had an immense stick in uty
hand, with which I had descended into the crater.
As I rode slowly by, she turned to me in the
pleasantest manner, and said, Ha un grand bas-
tone, signore, (you have got a large cane, sir.)
I certainly did not respect her less for her for-
wardness! ! (civility,) but on the contrary felt
I would have gone any length to have served
her.
In each of these cases, Mr. Headley may rely
upon it, the lady was drawn towards him by an
irresistible persotmal attraction. As he himself
might write it, It was madnessIt was love.
For as a general principle, nothing on earth cami
possibly be more unlike the manners and customs
of Italian ladies towards strangers in the streets,
than these examples.
Ho~v Mr. Headley got a reputation for dick.
ering may be pleasantly observed in this easy
little incident.
In bargaining for our meals and rooms, every-
thing was so reasonable that we could not com-
plain; and for once I did not attempt to heat
down the landlord. The entire arrangement of
the prices was always left to me in travelling, and
I had acquired quite a reputation in dickering with
the thieving Italian landlords and vetturini. We
made the man specify the (lishes he would give
us; and among other things he mentioned an
English pudding. This required some discus-
sion; but we finally concluded not to trust an
Italian in Salerno with such a dish, and had its
place supplied with something else. He prom-
ised enough; and I was turning away quite satis-
fied, when my friends slily hinted at my principle,
never to close a bargain with an Italian on his
own terms. It would nt do to lose my reputa-
tion ; and so turning round, I very gravely said:
20JOURNAL OF AN. AFRICAN CRUISER.
I suppose you will throw in the English pud-
ding. He as gravely and with blandness re-
plied : Oh, yes.
With two other anecdotes, also of a personal
complexion, we must repudiate our extracts.
This morning I received a note from an
American gentleman inviting me to accompany
him and his two sisters to the popes palace on the
Quirinal. I was at the reading-room when they
started, and as the carriage drove up the wheels
came somewhat iiear to a peppery, half-crazy
English cavalry officer. He began to swear and
curse the driver, when I, somewhat piqued at his
impudence in the presence of the ladies, stept
in and told the driver to move on. The officer
immediately tipped his hat to me and apologized,
and said in the blandest manner, Mr. H., (call-
ing me by name,) I believe your book is not in
this library, (referring to the one attached to the
reading-room.) How the fellow knew my name
puzzled me, and the question and all taking me
quite aback, I replied, What did you say, sirl
Are you not from New Orleans, and have you
not written a work1 I have not the pleasure of
hailing from New Orleans, I replied, nor have
I been guilty of writing a book.
Vesuvius is the scene of what follows:
As I sat on the edge of the crater, awed by
the spectacle before me, our guide approached
with some eatables, and two eggs had been cooked
in the steam issuing from one of the apertures we
had passed. My friend sat down very deliberately
to eat his. I took mine in my hand mechanically,
but was too much absorbed in the actions of the
sullen monster below me to eat. Suddenly there
was an explosion louder than any that had pre-
ceded it, hurling a larger, angrier mass into the
air. My hand involuntarily closed tightly over
the egg, and I was recalled to my senses by my
friend calling out very deliberately at my feet to
know what I was doing. I looked down, and there
he sat quietly picking the sheil from his egg,
while mine was running a miniature volcano over
his back and shoulders. I opened my hand, and
there lay the crushed shell, while the contents
were fast spreading over my friends broadcloth.
I laughed outright, sacrilegious as it was. So
much you see for the imagination yon have so
often scolded me about. I had lost my egg, while
my friend, who took things more coolly, enjoyed
not only the eating of his, but the consciousness
of having eaten an egg boiled in the steam of
Vesuvius.
With this we may take our leave of Mr. Head-
lay and his letters; heartily thanking him that
since this day of dignity, he has been guilty of
writing a book; hoping to find him some day
hailing from some other part of the world
and tipping our hat to him gratefully for the
entertainment it has given us. For whether we
find him pluming himself on his aristocratic Ital-
ian acquaintances, and having a satisfaction pe-
culiar to republicanism in the repetition of their
titled names; or weighing and measuring the
most unlikely and impossible things by the stand-
ards of our country and New York; or
crunching the egg he has for lunch on Mount
XTesuvins, in the convulsive grasp belonging to
that wild imagination which his friends have
scolded him about ; or going to the conver-
sazioni of unsuspicious governors of cities, and
calculating in his book the cost of the refresh-
ments there provided, which are not tempting, he
says, and may certainly be got for ten dollars a
night ;he is ever the same agreeable person.
Perhaps his best aspect is, his unconscious illus-
tration of the natural acuteness of the common
people in Italy, who certainly fooled Mr. Head-
ley to the top of his bent~vitness his recorded
dialogues with themwhenever he gave them a
chance.
From the Examiner.
Journal of an African Oruiser. By an officer of
the U. S. Navy. Edited by NATHANIEL IlAw-
TiIORNE. Wiley arid Putnam.
Tans journal is freshly and cleverly written, and
touches on a scene little hackneyed by journalists
or travellers. The most inveterate goer-ahead
of even the authors countrymen, stops short at
the west coast of Africa. Few visit there, as he
drily remarks in his preface, unless driven by
stern necessity; and still fewer, when arrived
there, are disposed to struggle against the ener-
vating influence of the climate, and keep up
even so much of intellectual activity as may suf-
fice to fill a diurnal page of a common-place book.
We may congratulate the officer on his fair
amount of activity in that respect. He writes un-
affectedly on most subjects, and often with great
animation.
We will not touch upon his views as to the
slave trade; however easy it might be to retort
upon his own government that suspicion of insin-
cerity and doubtful motive which he does nnt
scruple to charge upon the English ; and which,
remembering tinexampled sacrifices, and tests of
sincerity without parallel, we can very well af-
ford to bear. It would certainly not he difficult to
show that our officer fails to refute the American
abolitionist party, (whose wisdom in any other re-
spect we should be chary to affirm,) in his argu-
ment on their charge against the United States
navy for a manifest reluctance to capture slave-
ships. The thing~ is on his lip, but not in his
heart. He argtmes stoutly, but the tenor of his
volume is against his argument. You see at once
that, though stoppage of the slave trade was the
colorable niotive of the cruise, all the principal
exertions discoverable in the course of it, were
exclusively directed to the furtherance and protec-
tion of American commerce and American inter-
ests in Liberia.
As for what he says of England in this matter,
it is a mere repetition of the foreign cant long
prevalent, especially in France. It has always
been a thing incomprehensible to our lively neigh-
bors, that a money-getting, money-keeping coun-
try, should have spent twenty millions upon an
act of humanity. Even M. Thiers, though he
cannot countenance the dark Machiavellian charges
(if his journalist friends on this head, thinks it
decent in the fourth volume of his history, (just
issued in Mr. Colburns authorized translation,) to
exclaim, with a self-satisfied chuckle, that Eng-
lish slave emancipation has proved a total
failure!
Yet even on this question of slaveryso diffi-
cult for any American to approach without the
strongest prejudices that birth and education can
implantthe author of this lively and well-writ-
ten hook does not wholly lose the pervading frank-
21 22 JOURNAL OP AN AFRICAN CRUISER.
ness and sailor-like manliness of his character.
Observe his confession.
When the white man sets his foot on the
shore of Africa, he finds it necessary to throw off
his former prejudices. For my own part, I have
dined at the tables of many colored men in Libe-
ria, have entertained them on shipboard, worship-
ped with them at church; walked, rode, and as-
sociated with them, as equal with equal, if not as
friend with friend. Were I to meet those men in
my own town, and among my own relatives, I
would treat them kindly and hospitably, as they
have treated me. My position would give me
confidence to do so. But, in another city, where
I might be known to few, should I follow the dic-
tates of my head and heart, and there treat these
colored men as brethren and equals, it would im-
ply the exercise of greater moral courage than I
have ever been conscious of possessing. This is
sad; bdt it shows forcibly what the colored race
have to struggle against in America, and how vast
an advantage is gained by removing them to an-
other soil.
He goes further in another passage of his jour-
nal, and describes his having found, in a man of
color, one of the shrewdest, most active, and most
agreeable of Liberian colonists. This was Colonel
Hicks: thus described.
Once a slave in Kentucky, and afmer~vards in
New Orleans, he is now a commission merchant
in Monrovia, doing a business worth four or five
thousand dollars per annum. Writing an elegant
hand, he uses this accomplishment to the best ad-
vantage by inditing letters, on all occasions, to
those who can give him business. If a French
vessel shows her flag in the harbor, the colonels
krooman takes a letter to the master, written in
his native language. If an American man-of-war,
he writes in English, offering his services, and
naming some person as his intimate friend, who
will probably be known on board. Then he is so
hospitable, and his house always so neat, and his
table so goodhis lady, moreover, is such a
friendly, pleasant-tempered person, and so good-
looking, into the bargainthat it is really a for-
tunate day for the stranger in Liberia, when he
makes the acquaintance of Colonel and Mrs.
Hicks. Every day, after the business of the
morning is concluded, the colonel dresses for din-
ner, which appears upon the table at three oclock.
He presides with genuine elegance and taste: his
stories are good and his quotations amusing. To
be sure, he occasionally commits little mistakes,
such, for instance, as speaking of America as his
alma mater; but, on the whole, even without any
allowance for a defective education, he appears
wonderfully well. One circumstance is too indi-
cative of strong sense, as well as good taste, not
to be mentioned ;he is not ashamed of his color,
but speaks of it without constraint, and without
effort. Most colored men avoid alluding to their
hue, thus betraying a morbid sensibility on the
point, as if it were a disgraceful and afflictive dis-
pensation. Altogether the colonel and his lady
make many friends, and are as apparently happy,
and as truly respectable, as any couple here or
elsewhere.
Now if this hospitable, able, and excellent citi-
zen were to present himself in New York, what
would be his reception I Suppose him driving as
a matter of course to the best hotel. Suppose
him tendering his money at the box-door of a the-
atre. Suppose him resorting to church, to wor-
ship the Creator of all men. What is the im-
pression that would be most bitterly conveyed to
him in all these places Why, that there may be
tolerance or hope for any kind of iniquity in the
states of free America, but that of a colored skin.
He would be followed by a savage and cold-
blooded proscription, which has no limit, no end.
He would see it in the gaol and in the hos?ital:
and it would follow him to the grave. Wel may
our intelligent officer call it sad indeed.
The principal topics of the journal comprise
sketches of the Canaries, the Cape de Verds, Li-
beria, Madeira, Sierra Leone, Cape Coast, and
other localities of interest on the western side.
The cruise lasted some year and a half; and the
cruising ground, we need hardly remind any
reader of the truest history on record, embraced
the very track of that most famous of all the navi-
gators, Captain Robinson Crusoe, when he went
trading for ivory, gold dust, and slavesin no
fear of anti-piratical ships of war, American or
English.
From the many curious and graphic notices of
native customs and character on the Liberian
coast, we select the following.
It is to be desired that some missionary should
give an account of the degree and kind of natural
religion among the native tribes. rrheir belief in
the efficacy of sassy-wood to discover guilt or in-
nocence, indicates a faith in an invisible Equity.
the most ridico-
Some of them, however select
Ions of animals, the monkey, as their visible sym-
bol of the Deity; or, as appears more probable,
they stand in spiritual awe of him, from an itlea
that the souls of the dead are again embodied in
this shape. Under this impression, they pay a
kind of worship to the monkey, and never kill him
near a burial-place; and though, in other sitna-
tions, they kill and eat him, they endeavor to pro-
pitiate his favor by respectful language, and the
use of charms. Other natives, in the neighbor-
hood of Gaboon, worship the shark, and throw
slaves to him to be devoured.
On the whole, their morality is superior to
their religionat least, as between members of
the same tribealthough they seem scarcely to
acknowledge moral obligations in respect to
strangers. Their landmarks, for instance, are
held sacred among the individuals of a tribe. A
father takes his 5OO~ and points out the stake
and stones which mark the boundary between
him and his neighbor. There needs no other
registry. Land passes from sire to son, and is
sold and bought with as undisputed and secure a
title as all our deeds and formalities can establish.
But, between different tribes, wars frequently
arise on disputed boundary questions, and in con-
sequence of encroachments made by either party.
Land-palavers and Woman-palavers are the
great causes of war. Veracity seems to be the
virtue most indiscriminately practised, as well
towards the stranger as the brother. Ihe natives
are cautious as to the accuracy of the stories
which they promulgate, and seldom make a
stronger asseveration than I tink he be true !
Yet their consciences do not shrink from the
use of falsehood and artifice, where these appear
expedient.
The natives are not insensible to the advan-
tages of education. They are fond of having
their children in the families of colonists, where JOURNAL OF AN AFRICAN CRUISER. 23
they learn English, and the manners of civilized
life, and get plenty to eat. Probably the parents
hope, in this way, to endow their offspring ~vith
some of the advantages which they 5U~~O5~ the
white man to possess over the colored race. So
sensible are they of their own inferiority, that if a
person looks sternly in the face of a native, when
about to be attacked by him, and calls out to him
loudly, the chances are ten to one that the native
runs away. This effect is analogous to that
which the eye of man is said to exert on the
fiercest of savage beasts. The same involuntary
and sad acknowledgment of a lower order of be-
ing appears in their whole intercourse with the
whites. Yet such self-abasement is scarcely just;
for the slave-traders, who constitute the specimens
of civilized man with whom the natives have
hitherto been most familiar, are by no means on a
par with themselves in a moral point of view.
It is a pity to see such awful homage rendered
to the mere intellect, apart from truth arid good-
ness.
It is a redeeming trait of the native character,
so far as it goes, that women are not wholly with-
out influence in the public councils. If, when a
tribe is debating the expediency of going to war,
the women come beneath the council-tree, and
represent the evils that will result, their opinion
will have great weight, and may probably turn the
scale in favor of peace. On the other hand, if
the women express a wish that they were men, in
order that they might go to war, the warriors de-
clare for it at once. It is to be feared, that there
is ami innate fierceness even in the gentler sex,
which makes them as likely to give their voices
for war as for peace. It is a feminine office and
privilege, on the African coast, to torture prison-
ers taken in war, by sticking thorns in their flesh,
and in various other modes, before they are put to
death. The unfortunate Captain Farwell under-
vent three hours of torture, at the hands of the
women and children. So, likewise, did the mate
of Captain Burkes vessel, at Sinoe.
There are many remarks of this kind on the
various phases of native habits and life, with the
same strange blending of the ludicrous and sor-
rowful. On the whole, the condition of the Afri-
can is wretched enough; and the officer doubts if
the influence of the missionaries, in those portions
of the territory where the colonists exercise juris-
diction, has been salutary. In points of this kind
he speaks with considerable authority, because
with evident frankness. We cannot so freely ad-
mit his freedom from a certain bias, in speaking
of the prospects of the Liberian colony. His
sanguine expressions on this head are certainly
not borne out by the facts and examples he ad-
duces.
But we have said enough to direct the readers
attention to the volume generally, (it appears to
be part of a series, to which Mr. Headleys silly
book above noticed seems also to belong, in the
shape and on the plan of Mr. Murrays excellent
Colonial Library;) and we shall occupy what re-
mains of our space with the lively extractable
matter it so much abounds in.
AN AFRICAN BEAUTY.
Sitting with my friend Jack Purser, yester-
day, a young woman came up, with her pipe in
her mouth. A cloth around her loins, dyed with
gay colors, composed her whole drapery, leaying
her figure as fully exposed as the most classic
sculptor could have wished. It is to be observed,
however, that the sable hue is in itself a kind of
veil, and takes away from that sense of nudity
which would so oppress the eye, were a womao
of our own race to present herself so scantily at-
tired. The native lady in question was tall, finely
shaped, and would have been not a little at-
tractive, but for the white clay with which she
has seen fit to smear her face and bosam. Around
her ankles were many rows of blue heads, which
also encircled her leg below the knee, thus sup-
plying the place of garters, although stockings
were dispensed with. JJer smile was pleasant,
and her disposition seemed agreeable: and, cer-
tainly if the rest of Jack Pursers wives (for this
was one of the nine-and-twenty) be so well-fitted
to make him happy, the sum total of his conjugal
felicity most be enormous.
Jack Purser was a large shrewd Krooman; the
representative of a middle class between the sav-
age and the civilized the maker of enormous
gains by his dealings between the two; and the
husband of twenty-nine wives.
USES OF A BUSTLE.
The most remarkable article of dress is one
which I have vaguely understood to constitute a
part of the equipment of my own fair country-
womenin a word, the veritable bustle. Among
the belles of Axim, there is a reason for the ex-
crescence which does riot exist elsewhere ; for the
little children ride astride of the maternal bustle,
which thus becomes as useful, as it is unquestion-
ably ornamental. Fashion, however, has evi-
dently tnore to do with the matter than con-
venience; for old wrinkled grandams wear these
beautiful anomalies, arid little girls of eight years
old display protuberances that might excite the
envy of a Broadway belle. Indeed, fashion may
be said to have its perfect triumph and utmost re-
finement in this article ; it being a positive fact,
that some of the Axim girls wear merely the bus-
tle, without so much as the shadow of a garment.
Its native name is tarb koshe.
And truly, to judge from native specimens
of the tarb koshe in our London shop-win-
dows just now, one might argue, from a late enor-
mous growth in its proportions, a growing ten-
dency in civilized life to that Axim fashion of dis-
pensing with any other garment.
AFRICAN MORALITIES.
Should the wife be suspected of infidelity, the
husband may charge her with it, and demand that
she drink the poisononts decoction of sassy-wood,
which is used as the test of guilt or innocence, in
all cases that are considered too uncertain for hu-
man judgment. If her stomach free itself from
the fatal draught by vomiting, she is declared in-
nocent, and is taken back by her family without
repayment of the dower. On the other hand, if
the poison begin to take effect, she is pronounced
guilty; an emetic is administered in the shape of
soap; and her husband may, at his option, either
send her home, or cut off her nose and ears.
There is one sad discrepancy in the moral
system of these people, as regards the virtue of
the women. No disgrace is imputed to the wife
who admits the immoral advances of a white man,
provided it be done with the knowledge and con-
sent of her husband. The latter, in whose eyesJOURNAL OF AN AFRICAN CRUISER.
the white man is one of a distinct and superior or-
der of beings, usually considers himself honored
by an alThir of this nature, and makes it likewise
a matter~of profit. All proposals, in view of such
a connexion, must pass through the husband;
nor, it is affirmed, is there any hazard of wound-
ing his delicacy, or awakening his resentment,
whatever he his rank and respectability. The
violated wife returns to the domestic roof with
undiminished honor, and confines herself as rigidly
within the limits of her nuptial vow, as if this
s~ngnlar suspension of it had never taken place.
A SEA-HORROR.
As the gig was coming alongside, under sail,
the tiller broke, and the coxswain, who was steer-
lag, fell overboard. He was a good swimmer,
and struck out for the ship, not thirty yards dis-
tant, while the boat fell off rapidly to the leeward.
In less than half a minute, a monstrous shark rose
to the surface, seized the poor fellow by the body,
arid carried him instantly under. Two hundred
men were looking on, without the power to afford
assistance. We beheld the water stained with
crimson for many yards aroundbut the victim
was seen no more Once only, a few seconds
after his disappearance, the monster rose again to
the surface, displaying a length of well nigh
twenty feet, and then his immense tail above the
water, as if in triumph and derision. It was like
something preturnatural ; and terribly powerful
lie must have been, to take under so easily, and
swallow, in a moment, one of the largest and
most athletic men in the ship. Poor Ned Mar-
tin !
L. E. L.S GRAVE AT CAPE COAST CASTLE.
The first thought that struck me was the in-
appropriateness of the spot for a grave, and espe-
cially for the grave of a woman, and, most of all,
a woman of poetic temperament. In the open
area of the fort, at some distance from the castle
wall, the stone pavement had been removed in
several spots, and replaced with plain tiles. Here
lie buried some of the many British officers who
have fallen victims to the deadly atmosphere of
this region; and among them rests L. E. L.
Her grave is distinguishable by the ten red tiles
which cover it. Daily, the tropic sunshine blazes
down upon the spot. Daily, at the hour of pa-
rade, the peal of military niusic resounds above
her head, and the garrison marches and counter-
marches through the area of the fortress, nor
shuns to tread upon the ten red tiles, any more
than upon the insensible stones of the pavement.
It may be well for the fallen commander to be
buried at his post, and sleep where the reveill6
and roll-call may be heard, and the tramp of his
fellow-soldiers echo and reecho over him. All
this is in unison with his profession; the drum
and trumpet are his perpetual requiem; the sol-
diers honorable tread leaves no indignity upon
the dead warriors dust. But who has a right to
trample on a womans breast~ And what had
IL. E. L. to do with warlike parade And where-
fore was she buried beneath this scorching pave-
ment, and not in the retired shadow of a garden,
where seldom any footstep would come stealing
through the grass, and pause before her tablet I
There, her heart, while in one sense it decayed.
would burst forth afresh from the sod in a profu-
sion of spontaneous flowers, such as her living
fancy lavished throughout the world. But now,
no verdure nor blossom will ever grow upon her
grave.
If a man may ever indulge in sentiment, it is
over the ashes of a woman whose poetry touched
him in his early youth, while he yet cared any-
thing about either sentiment or poetry. Thus
much, the reader will pardon. In reference to
Mrs. MLean, it may be added, that, subsequently
to her unhappy death, different rumors were afloat
as to its cause, some of them cruel to her own
memory, others to the conduct of her husband.
All these reports appear to have been equally and
entirely unfounded. It is well established here,
that her death was accidental.
SUNDAY IN MADEIRA.
Sunday is not observed with much strictness
in Madeira. On the evening of that day I called
at a friends house, where thirty or forty persons,
all Portuguese, were collected, without invitation.
Music, dancing, and cards were introduced for the
entertainment of the guests. The elder portion
sat down to whist; and, in a corner of a large
dancing-room, one of the gentlemen established a
faro-bank, which attracted most of the company
to look on or bet. So much more powerful were
the cards than the ladies, that it was found diffi-
cult to enlist gentlemen for a single cotillion.
After a while dancing was abandoned, and cards
ruled supreme. The married ladies made bets as
freely as the gentlemen; and several young ones,
though more reserved, yet found courage to put
down their small stakes. I observed one sweet
girl of sixteen, standing over the table, and
watching the game with intense interest. Me-
thought the game within her bosom was for a
more serious stake than that upon the table, and
better worth the observers notice. Who should
win it?her guardian angel? or the gambling
fiend? Alas, the latter! She bashfully drew a
little purse from her bosom, and put down her
stake with the rest.
AN AMERICAN MAN-OF-WARS CREW.
The private history of a man-of-wars crew,
if truly told, would be full of high romance,
varied with stirring incident, and too often dark-
ened with deep and deadly crime. Many go to
sea with the old Robinson Crusoe spirit, seeking
adventure for its own sake; many, to escape the
punishment of guilt, which has made them out-
laws of the land; some, to drown the memory of
slighted love; while others lice from the wreck
of their broken fortunes ashore, to hazard another
shipwreck on the deep. The jacket of a common
sailor often covers a figure that has walked Broad-
way in a fashionable coat. An officer sometimes
sees his old school-fellow and playmate taken to
the gangway and flogged. Many a blackguard
on board has been bred in luxury; and many a
good seaman has been a slaver and a pirate. It is
well for the ships company, that the sins of indi-
viduals do not, as in the days of Jonas, stir up
tempests that threaten the destruction of the
whole.
24DEFENCES AND RESOURCES OF CANADA.
25
From the United Service Magazine. This is a matter of so recent a date that we shall
REMARKS ON THE DEFENCES AND RESOURCES not make any observations upon it; only we fear
that some seeds of discord may yet remain among
OF CANADA IN THE EVENT OF A WAR, them, which will, no doubt, be fostered by the
BY CLAUDIUS SHAW, E5Q., K. S. F., LATE OF THE Sympathizers on the frontiers, and we may not find
ROYAL ARTILLERY, the generality of our Canadians quite as loyal as
we could wish, as they may consider some of their
(Continued from No. 61.) sores not quite healed, and be inclined rather to
HAVINO endeavored so far to give a sketch of annoy thami assist; though their hatred for the
the localities of Canada, and point out some of time Americans may prevent them from openly assist-
blunders which took place during time last war, in ing our enemies, yet perhaps they may take an
the hopes that in case of anotimer, these, being opportunity to try and throw the yoke off alto-
shown, may be shurmned, we simall next proceed to gether.
give a sketch of the inhabitants nmf the different All mlmrough Canada there are at present three
districts, whom it was our lot, from the I)ectmliar political parmies one is staunch to tile British
circumstances in wlmich we were placed after leav- rule, another is favorable to the Americans, and
ing the service, to mix much amormg, and thus had tile third wish for having Cammada an independent
opportunities of getting an insiglmt into their char- country. Between these we shall have a difficult
acter which does not fall to the lot of many mdi- game to play.
viduals. Having been much employed in survey- As this is meant to be more of a descriptive
in g in several parts of the province, I camne in than a political sketch, we shall confine ourselves
contact with all descriptions of people, from the more to it than the latter, as it is hoped it may be
highest rank to the farmers, as my former station instructive to parties roino omit in command or
C
and connections entitled me to associate with one, otherwise, by makimig them a little acquainted with
while my occupation brought me into contact with the nature of the country or people they may have
the other. to deal with when they arrive.
To follow the same course as in the former part, We have not said much of the principal towns,
we most proceed again from below and round nor the society that may be met with in them; no
Quebec. doubt the variety is great, as they form a nucleus
It is hardly necessary to mention that the coon- in which all parties meet, and it is only by becom-
try from Gasp6 to above Montreal was firmerly ing personally acquainted with them that all their
included as Lower Canada, and was settled by qualities can be duly appreciated. We shall,
French emigrants, as they were the first Europeans therefore, confine ourselves to the different districts
who took possession of these parts. No class of as we found them.
people could be more happy and contented than Along the fromntier from where the two provinces
were these French Canadians at the period the used to divide the country was settled in the first
last war broke out. The young men mostly em- instance by old soldiers; but the never-wearying
ployed themselves in the fur-trade, going up every soul (If Jonathan soon discovered that our land was
year to the north-west country, to take provisions pleasant, and in a short time he calculated to squat.
and stores, and bring back peltries, or furs; they Governor Simcoe gave encouragenment to all
came home every autumn with plenty of money to comers, and many Americans settled among cur
keep them all winter. The old men had culti- people, especially in the neighborhood of Corn-
vated their lands, and sufficient food had been wall, Brockville, and along the shores up to
raised to maintain their families in abundance all Kingston, bringing their disagreeable habits and~
thie long winter. Plenty of fuel had been cut in manners along with them.
the woods, waiting for the snow to enable them We must, however, exclude from this the Glen-
to bring it in. The snow fallen, the Canadian garry settlement, where, a few years ago, the
thought no more of work till the next spring. Gaelic was spoken as purely as on the shores of
Visiting among nemghbors, dancimig, and frolic be- Loch Lochie, and no doubt is still. These may
came the order of the day. As long as the snow always be considered good subjects. Many of their
lay on the ground nothing else was thought of strange neighbors proved so during the last war,,
through all this region. It is impossible that any as they said all their property was on the British
people, not even Mr. Polks Arcadians, could be ground, and, as they were very comfortable and
more happy. The war broke out; that did not happy, they would defend it. But how are they
affect them muchwinter still brought its enjoy- to be judged of now mamiy of these men talk of
mentsperhaps some near the large towns, or on indepemidence, and many would rather be one of
the immediate frontier, might have found a little the States, than as they are. Some people last.
differemice; but they were governed by their old war went over to the States, and gave up their
laws; they followed their own religion, and if property ; others, again, remained on their pro-
their troublesome neighbors could not agree it was perty, pretended to join the British, but gave in
no great fault of theirs. They perhaps did not formation to the enemy. How are these people-
love the English government or people, hut they to conduct themselves ~vhien they may split into
loved the Americans less; they therefore became three parties l Two to one against the existing
loyal subjects, and made good militia; beside, government.
they formed some very good fencible regiments. Some few miles back from Brockville a settle
The voltigeurs and chasseurs, in their grey cloth- ment of half-pay officers and pensioners was formed
ing, formed, from their knowledge of the country, at Perth. This is a very extensive district, and,
most efficient troops. After the war they settled may, of course, be relied on in the event of a dis
down again in their former happy state; but some turbance.
restless beings, such as Papineau and his clique, Above Kingston, along the shores of the Bay
got among them, told them things they never of Quint~, a large arm of Lake Ontario, is a set--
dreamt of; they were fairly 0 Connellized, and tlement mostly composed of Germans; they are a~
rebelled! quiet inoffensive race, minding their own business,.
LXXIII. LiVING AGE. VOL. VII. 2DEFENCES AND RESOURCES OF CANADA.
and troubling their neighbors but little. They
cultivate their rich soil, and live happily amongst
each other, caring little for change or innovation.
The country above this, till near Toronto, was
but little settled at the time of the last war. Well
do we remember marching twenty miles without
seeing a house now all along here the country is
well-settled, chiefly with emigrants from England
and Ireland, and everything is much improved.
Of course here we may expect many loyal sub-
jects ; but no doubt politics run strong, and, from
the mixture of parties front all sides, there must
be a variety of opinions.
The district back of Toronto, along Yonge
Street, was formerly settled by Gern~ansa very
extraordinary sect. They were some species of
Quakers; they never shaved, and their habits were
most primitive and simple.
The next people who settled among them were
sailorsrather an odd mixturebut they agreed
very well together. Many emigrants also joined
them; and, as these settlements were very impor-
tant, it was necessary to place a superior class of
people in them.
Further up towards the head of Lake Ontario,
and through the London District, to the mouth of
the river Thames, was settled by a variety of peo-
ple, Germans, Yankees, and old soldiers. It has
much improved within a few years, and has had a
due admixture of settlers from the old country.
As the land is of excellent quality, there was great
difficulty in procoring grants along here of late
years, though formerly whole townships had been
given to individuals. This valuable land remained
long without improvement, but as they found peo-
ple coming out with some capital, they found
:means of getting it sold on advantageous terms,
both to themselves and the purchasers.
The Niagara District is composed of all sorts.
This being a kind of peninsula, three sides washed
by the waters, it was always the theatre of war,
and many Americans became settlers through this
~district. Though there were many loyal subjects
mong them, yet there were many factious ones,
and there was great difficulty in knowing friends
from foes.
The inhabitants of the neighborhood of Sand-
wich and Amherstburg are similar to the Lower
Canadians in language, manners, and religion,
though there are more among them who speak the
~English language.
Detroit was settled about the same time as Mon-
Lreal, by some French soldiers who were dis-
charged, and tempted there by the beauty of the
country and fineness of the climate. It being
situated as low as 420 north latitude, the winters
are comparatively short, though the springs are
long and cold, from the circumstance of the ice
breaking up on Lakes Huron and St. Clair so late,
-that it is carried down through the Detroit, and
:makes the season very cold and tedious.
It may be thought strange that as yet no allusion
I has been made to the aborigines of the country,
especially, as during the last war they took such a
prominent part. It would be most desirable if their
~services could be dispensed with altogether; but
we fear it is impossible, as in the first instance
their natural taste leads them to bloodshed, and,
if they were not taken in by us, they might turn
:ao us. The Americans would be sure to em-
ploy them; and as they abound so much in their
native state in the immediate country in which the
waris likely to be carried on, and as manywould
conceive their own territories to be in danger, it
would be quite impossible to prevent them from
taking a share in the operations.
Many tribes, such as the Mohawks, Hurons,
Chippewas, and others, are so mixed up with our
own countrymen through the provinces, and have
become partly civilized, cultivating land, and
adopting other European customs, that we might
look upon them as our fellow-subjects, especially
as they swear fealty to their great mother, Vic-
toria; that they might be considered at least as
allies, and they proved themselves faithful during
the last war. Yet their services could not be
fully depended upon; as (hey would only take the
field when it pleased themselves, and fi~ lit after
their own fashion. It would have becit much
better could their services have been dispensed
with, not oiily for the sake of humanity, but for
pure military reasons. They would seldom or
never take a lead, but hang upon the skirts of an
army, cut off stragglers, plunder and scalp the
wounded, and commit all sorts of barbarities
They always required arms, ammunition, food, and
clothing, and very often after obtaining them they
would turn against the hand that gave them;
especially if they found their friends in adversity,
they would suddenly disappear, if they did not go
altogether against them in time of need. Yet
with all these well-known disadvantages, we shall
be obliged to employ them; for if we do not, the
enemy will be sure to use them against us. Yet
in some cases they are useful. They are excellent
at a surprise, or in cutting off detached posts or
parties; but then it is horrible to employ themthey
take no prisonersor, if they do, it is only to destroy
them by torture. They are fond of the English
officers, and will follow them as long as they
advance, but in case of a reverse they vanish.
Their love of ardent spirits is so great, that they
will do anything to obtain theni; and, once pro-
cured, they commit the most extravagant excesses
during their intoxication. They are also extreme-
ly fond of dress. To obtain this they will go great
lengths; but everything will go if they can get
liquorthey have been known to part with their
last article of clothing, in the very depth of winter,
in exchange for it. What confidence, therefore,
can be placed in such allies?
Many of the tribes are now nearly extinct; as
the white people have encroached upon their hunt-
ing-grounds they have retired further back, or
those who have remained among the new comers
have adopted all their bad habits, especially drunk-
enness. Small-pox has carried off whole villages;
so that it is only in the far West that there is any
number of them. There they still continue in
their wild and savage state.
Our government sends out every year great
quantities of presents to them, such as blankets,
arms ammunition, and clothing of every descrip-
tion which they require; but this is of little use, as
they will sell them to the settlers for a little spirits.
Though this is contrary to law, it is often con-
travened, and the poor Indians suffer a winter of
misery in consequence.
Every man in Canada, from 18 to 60, is obliged
to enroll himself as a militiaman, and appears
once a year on parade. The queens birthday is
the day generally chosen. Officers are regularly
appointed to every regiment. So far the system is
good. Besides, every man must, or ought to
bring fire-arms with him ; but they are totally
deficient of discipline, more than knowing whose
26 DEFENCES AND RESOURCES OF CANADA~ 27
company they belong to. Every man, however,
is a good marksman, and would soon learn enough
to be useful in the bush. Here, indeed, they
would have the advantage over regular troops;
for if they only knew how to extend and close to
the right and left, and advance or retire by word
of command, or bugle, they would be sufficiently
drilled for any purpose for which they might be
wanted; and as it would be only in case of inva-
sion, or a disturbance in the immediate neighbor-
hood, that the sedentary militia, as they were
called last war, would be required to take the
field, they would he found sufficiently drilled by
the knowledge of a few simple manosuvres.
Corps could be formed, such as there were last
war, of young men, -ho would enrol themselves,
as did three regiments, under the name of incorpo-
rated militia, and do duty as regular troops.
These corps were highly distinguished, and the
officers now receive half-pay.
In the militia now will be found many pension-
ers and half-pay officers, which was not the case
formerly; and as the population is so much in-
creased by emigration from the parent country, the,
force will be much greater, and as these may gen-.
emIly, especially from the rural districts, be con-
sidered good subjects, it will be better. Yet
there is so much liberty, ceording to the Yankee
ideas, crept in among them, and so much of the
spirit of radicalism spread through the province,
that great precaution must be taken as to whom
arms are given, for fear of their being turned
against the government. As the late rebellion
showed that there were many turbulent characters
to deal with, who would willingly take the oppor-
tunity of an invasion to either declare themselves
independent, or be for joining the United States.
The latter is most to be dreaded in the first in-
stance, as the independents might resist the others
and support the government, and then, after there
had been some xvar, they would see their weak-
ness, and cling by the present government for
some time.
There is not the least doubt but that Canada
will, in course of time, declare its independence.
This is but natural; but it is too soon yet. There
is not wealth enough in the country: nor are they
sufficiently strong or united to carry such a incas-
nrc, or, if carried, to support it. The country is
still too thinly populated to guarantee it, and they
would be exposed to the insidious attacks of the
Americans.
As we had frequent opportunities of seeing the
American troops, a few remarks upon them may
not be unacceptable.
The regular army at present is but very small,
and that is chiefly employed on the frontiers of the
States, on the Indian territories, and has not a
disposable man. In their ranks are very few real
Americans; they are composed of all nations, and
generally the worst characters. It is nothing
but the severest discipline that keeps them at all in
order. There are a great many English deserters~
among them, who, not liking the work in the
States which they were set to, thought it better to
become soldiers again than starve. -The Amer-
icans generally have a dislike to being soldiers.
The business does not at all suit their disposition,
for they are never happy unless they are trading
and scheming in some way or other; and they con-
sidei~ it almost a disgrace to be a soldier, as they
conceive a man must be a poor dispirited creature
who demeans himself to be under the control of
others, as a soldier must be, and that no genuine
American, having the true spirit of liberty, would
ever degrade himself so far as to be a .ri~ular.
Yet every man, who is capable of bearing arms,
is a militiaman, and they pride themselves on it.
They have several days training every year, and
have some idea of discipline; they are good shots,
and would be ready the moment war is declared
to cross the frontier into Canada. They are
proud of military fame, and, as they would con-
sider them-selves aggrieved in the present case,
they would think themselves patriots, and would
fight with the greatest enthusiasm.
As Brother Jonathan is not in any way particu-
lar about gaining his ends, so long as he succeeds,
he will try a plan of thinning our ranks besides
fighting; he will entice the men to desert, espe-
cially regiments lately arrived from England.
As he speaks the same language, he can at any
time cross the river, and get among the soldiers,
especially when they may be on the march, and
are billeted in different houses along the road, and
will use every inducement to entice them away:
and as these deluded wretches are sure to find
themselves deceived by the fine promises that
have been made theni, they w~il be obliged to en-
list in the American army, and fight against their
old comrades.
During the last war we did not lose many by
desertion, but immediately peace was declared
they went over by dozens; dragoons fully equip-
pedtheir horses and arms brought them some-
thing; and what was very extraordinary, there
were instances of old soldiers deserting, who in a
few months would have been entitled to their dis-
charges and a grant of land.
A pay-serjeant of a company deserted : as he
took some money with him, there was some little
stir made about it. We happened to be acquaint-
ed with the American general who commanded
opposite, and meeting him one day on our side,
he mentioned the circumstance voluntarily him-
self, saying that one of his young officers seeing
such a fine fellow, had enlisted him; but that as
soon as he (the general) had heard of it, he or-
dered his immediate discharge. A few days
after, some of our officers, going to the American
side, called upon the general to pay their re-
spects, and the door was opened by this very man,
in full American regimentalsthe generals or-
derly serjeant!
When generals of their regular army do such
things, what can be expected from inferiors, or
from people who of their own accord would entice
soldiers to desert, thinking that they were per-
forming a patriotic action, and doing their country
a benefit?
The regular officers of the American standing
army are at present all educated at the Military
Academy at West Point, in the state of New
York; but their numbers are very small, so that,
in the case of a fresh eruption, they would have
to raise officers, as they did before, from lawyers
without business, broken-down shop-keepers, and
all sorts of half-educated idlers. As the system
of equality brings the people on sneh a peculiar
footing, discipline out of the ranks is hardly to be
expected, especially among the troops from the
western states. A party of these, last war, landed
upon the property of a gentleman in easy circum-
stances, who farmed very extensively. As it was
early in the morning it was probable many had
not breakfasted, for in a few minutes every fowlsDEFENCES AND 1{ESOIJRCES OF CANADA.
duck, or turkey was killed; they then commenced
shooting some half-grown calves, which were
feeding io the orchard. The gentlemans brother
went up to an officer, and told him that since they
had come, he supposed they would eat, but re-
quested he would order his men not to shoot the
calves, and that he would bring them out a fat ox,
which they might have. The officer called to the
men, desiring them to desist; but they only
laughed at him, and told him to mind his own
business. One private asked what he meant by
speaking so to him; when he was in the ranks,
he said, he was willing to obey him; but off
parade, he (the private) guessed he was the best
man of the two.
What can be expected from such troops as
these I They do not fight for pay, or as nierce-
naries, but from principle; and they consider
themselves as great as their general, and only
yield to him perhaps from his being something
better educated, or from his having more hard
dollars at home. They do not, however, at all
scruple to censure or approve of his plans, and
every man will give his opinion. American sol-
diers are not machines; they have their own ideas
of things, and will do pretty much as they fancy;
nevertheless, the love of plunder and enterprise
will bring thousands of them over the moment
war is declared, and the western part of Canada
will be immediately invaded, and many of the
scenes of last war, such as plundering and burn-
ing towns, will be rei~inacted.
Scattered all over the United States, especially
on the frontiers, are a set of men, who have no
regular way of gaining their livelihood, and
though they live well, in one sense of the word,
yet, when they get up in the morning, they hardly
know where or how they are to procure their
breakfast; they are always wide awake, ready to
snatch at anything to turn a penny, always calcu-
lating or scheming about something. Nothing
ever comes amiss ; they can turn their hands to
anything. During winter they are generally in
the forests, lumbering; that is, cutting timber
into boards and shingles; as soon as the snow
melts, they form these into large rafts, which they
float down the lakes and rivers to Montreal, Que-
bec, or wherever they can find a market. The
money they get for this keeps theum till the fol-
lowing autumn, when they go again to the bush;
in the. mean time they take up their abode in some
village or town on the frontier. Seated in the
public-house, they go regularly through all the
gradatioims of dram-drinking, from the first morn-
ing gum-tickler to the last evening cocktail; all
this time they are seldom drunk, nor yet perfectly
sober. They are most annoying to strangers, and
argumentative with all parties; and on a late
occasion these fellows called themselves sympa-
t1~izers.
In the event of a war these fellows would
aboundCanada would be overrun with them.
The last affair clearly showed how ready they
would be; and hundreds, who had some little
idea of right and ~vrong, and might have thought
there was some little impropriety in invading a
country with which they were not at war, would
now have no such scruples, and swarms of them
would come from all quarters, and desire nothing
better. They are a strong, active, hardy race,
and might fairly come under the head of rum
customers. They would not be highly disci-
plined, but that would make them more formida
ble to the unprotected Canadians; as they would
have spies in every place, they would always
move upon such parts as might be most unpro-
tected by our troops.
No doubt, proper measures have been taken by
our government, a rid full instructions sent out, and
troops will soon follow, at least, such as can be
spared from home and the West Indies; but the
immensity of the frontier, and the distance it would
be necessary to move troops, (without calculating
upon sending them above Lake Huron,) would
take considerable time; and there cannot be the
least shadow of a doubt but that Canada will be
invaded along all the vulnerable points of its fron-
tier; much mischief may be done before we can
possibly get troops up the country. The sympa-
thizers will have begun; as they are on the spot,
they will soon be ready. The American militia
are better organized than ours, and being mostly
equipped with regular arms and clothing, (which
latter they get at their own expense,) they will
have every advantage over us.
We must call up the pensioners; they are al-
ready militia; and being equipped as they are at
home, an efficient force will immediately be ob-
tained. These can also give instructions to the
militia, and many independent and volunteer corps
would soon be enrolled among young men in the
different districts, who would undertake the more
active duties, while the older men would be able
to remain at home, to look after the farms, & c.,
and only turn out in ease of emergency.
These men would be found to be more useful
than even the regular troops, from their superior
knowledge of the country, not only as to the locali-
ties, but to the nature of the woods, in which so
much fighting must necessarily be carried on ; for
though the country is much more cleared than it
was last war, yet there are thousands of acres of
wood still standing; for suppose a man has a hun-
dred acres of laud, they cannot all be under culti-
vation, even supposing he had been longenough
located upon it, as it is necessary to have a certain
quantity (nearly one half) in reserve for fuel,
fences, and other things. It is only large proprie-
tors, who have many hundred acres, that can
afford to cultivate a hundred in one farm; and as
the land is all divided into lots of a hundred acres,
they generally prefer leaving a proportion of tim-
ber upon each lot; so that by this means the
country can never be free of wood, and as this is
very thick, and still very extensive, it requires
some knowledge to be able to find the way through
it; and English soldiers, especially those lately
arrived, would be very apt to lose their way, and
their wily antagonists would soon find means of
leading them into ambush.
As we have spent some time in the bush, a few
hints upon this subject may not be amiss.
Every officer going out ought to be provided
with a pocket-compass; this should be made to
form part of his equipment; it would not be ex-
pensive, and could be easily carried.
The following general rules may be easily re-
membered
The St. Lawrence and all the great lakes lie to
the south of Canada; so if a person gets into the
woods, to come out again he must steer southerly.
The bearing of principal forts and points should
be taken before entering the bush ; so that they
may be more readily found on returning.
All the principal rivers empty themselves into
the St. Lawrence or the lakes; so that following
28DEFENCES AND RESOURCES OF CANADA.
a water-course is a sure direcion, and now there
are few of these that have not mills upon them;
so there is every chance of soon coming upon a
settlement.
On the north side of every tree the bark is more
rough than the other; and if there is any moss
upon it, it is thickest on that side.
Trees have generally an inclination from the
west; and the largest branches hang towards the
east.
These simple rules we have never found to fail,
and it is the manner in which the Indians trace
heir route for miles through the trackless forest.
Another thing should he observed. Having
been particularly employed in the business, we
may be deemed authority on the subject.
There is very little variation of the compass in
Upper Canada. At Fort Erie, in 1822, there was
no variation, it being a magnetic meridian. Near
Fort Mississaqua, on Lake Ontario, which was our
next point of observation, there were but a few
minutes. At Notawasaga, again, on Lake Huron,
there was no variation. At Moy, near Sandwich,
the latitude is 42~ 19; the variation 10 28, west-
erlythis all to the west of Fort Erie; to the
east the variation will be found in much the same
ratio; so that the magnetic bearing may generally
be taken for any of the purposes above mentioned.
All this is very necessary to be known by the
British soldiers; for take a new comer out of sight
of the clearance, and turn him round once or twice,
the chances are against his finding his way out,
again, as a person, getting astray, will generally
keep walking in a circle.
It is not good, when hst, to shout, or discharge
fire-arms frequently, as the reverberation and echo
in the woods are very apt to make people take a
contrary course to what they ought.
Troops going to America ought to be clothed in
green, brown, or grey; the red jackets and white
belts might be left in England; they, with the
bright plates, are far too conspicuous, and the
Americans too good sharpshooters not to take ad-
vantage of them; while they, being clothed in
dark uniform, if any, and being hid behind a tree
or stump, are not easily distinguished by an un-
practised eye, an English soldier would have no
~hance. The number of officers picked off in for-
mer wars ought to serve as a warning in this.
The Americans are all excellent riflemen, as
they have been accustomed to the weapon from
their infancy; besides, they set due value upon
their ammunition, and never fire till they are sure
of their object. An Englishman, not having the
same education, is not aware of the value of this
article, and, as it costs him nothing, blazes away,
frequently without seeing his object, only he knows
they are somewhere there, and hopes to hit them.
The British soldiers knapsack is much too heavy
for service in any country, especially in this; but
as they are mostly moved from one established
post to another, a light kit might be ordered for
the field. While they were in garrison, they
could have the enjoyment of their full one, and as
in the winter season they require more clothing
than at home, arrangements might be entered into
for this purpose.
The artillery in tlte field are not of so much
utility, as the Americans will keep mostly in the
bush, where it cannot get; nevertheless, a propor-
tion must be employed; as the roads are generally
very bad, and the range or distance at which they
could see the enemy very short, from the in etven
tion of wood, but light guns would be necessary,
and howitzers generally the best description ; as
they would throw a heavier case or spherical than
could be done from long light guns, such as 6 or
9-pounders, and the enemy being generally scat-
tered, they would do more execution. If they
were even discovered in line or masses, there could
be no objection to throwing a few shells among
them, and howitzers would always range far
enough, though, at the same time, there might be
a proportion of long guns.
Having so far treated of affairs on shore, we
shall conclude, after passing a few remarks upon
the most important part necessary for the defence
of Canada, viz., the Naval Force.
We gave a sketch above of what was the force
employed during last ~var, and the probable state
in which they may be found at present; besides,
since those days tout cela est citangi, and another
species of naval warfare has taken place, viz.,
steam and heavy guns.
When the last war broke out, there was only
one steam-vessel upon all the Canadian waters;
this was the Swiftsure, between Quebec and Mon-
trealnow there are several. After the ~var some
merchants at Kingston built the Frontenac, to
trade on Lake Ontario, and a smaller one ran down
as far as Prescott, through the Lake of One Thou-
sand Islands. It was not long before the Ameri-
cans built a large vessel for the lake, and a smaller
one for Ogdensburg. how many there may be
now is unknown, but doubtless they must have
increased. We well recollect the first on Lake
Erie, which the Indians and others at Michili-
mackinac went out to assist, conceiving it to be a
vessel on fire, of which the masts had already been
burnt. There are now eight or ten running from
Buffalo to Detroit, Mackina, Green Bay, and other
places along the Michigan territory. There are
some upon our side; but as the American trade is
much greater than ours, they far outnumber us.
As they require pretty strong and well-built
vessels to navigate these ~vaters, they would all
be able to carry guns in proportion to their
strength.
The Americans are far from being good gunners,
and the practice we could make from the heavy
howitzers now in use would give us great advan-
tages over them, as the accident that happened
lately on board the Princeton from one of these
guns shows that they cannot make them, and also
that they cannot use them when made. We
already have plenty of this description of gun
made, and our Marine Artillery are well trained to
the use of them.
The command of the lakes and waters in Canada
will always give the side possessing it every ad-
vantage; for if the Americans have it, they will
be able to land troops on any part, and keep pos-
session as long as they choose; while, if we have
this advantage, we can prevent them from coming
over, and keep them prisoners if they did; hut the
we~fare of Canada, as a British province, will en-
tirely depend upon having the superiority on the
waters.
This will equally hold good as regards our mari-
time affairs on the ocean ; for though the ostensi-
ble ground of contest may be the Oregon Territory,
it is roost certain Canada will be the great seat of
warfare, from one extremity to the other; and we
shall have to fear internal as well as external foes.
We hope these few remarks, which are well
founded upon personal observations, made during
29VIVE LA GUERREWASPSWATER IN TIlE DESERT.
the time we were upon duty in that country, or
from subsequent events, may be of use in case of
a war; yet we must also hope that such an event
may not take place. However, it is best to be
prepared, and if this should be of the slightest use
in the way it is intended, our trouble will be amply
repaid.
VIVE LA GUERRE.
A WAR SONG FOR THE FRENCH IN ALGIRR5.
IN Dabras caverns hidden
Bide the Arabs, and delay
To yield, when they are bidden;
So cries brave Pelissier
Bring fagots of fierce fuel!
Frenchmen checked by Arab slaves!
We Li have a vengeance cruel!
Roast them in their acred caves!
We 11 make their fond trust falter!
Cast in fagots! Let them flare,
Till vengeance bath an altar
Fitly furnishd! Five Ta guerre !
Rush the sparks in rapid fountains
Up abroad into the sky!
From the bases of the mountains
Leap the forkd flames mountain-high!
The flames, like devils thirsting,
Lick the wind, where crackling spars
Wage hellish warfare, worsting
All the still, astonished stars!
Ply the furnace, fling the fagots!
Lo, the flames writhe, rush, and tear!
And a thousand writhe like maggots
In among them! Vi cUt g erre!
A mighty wind is blowing
Twards the caverns gaping mouth;
The clear, hot flames are flowing
In and in, to glut its drouth;
Flames with winds roar, rave, and battle
Wildly battle, rave, and roar;
And cries of men and cattle
Through the turmoil sadly soar.
We are pale! What! shall a trifle,
A sad sound, our bold hearts scare?
T is long before they stifle!
Bring more fagots! Vice Ta guerre!
With night began the burning;
Look where yonder comes the day!
Hark! signals for adjourning
Our brave sport. We must obey!
But be sure the slaves are weary
As the short and sob-like sigh
Of gusts on moorlands dreary
Float their sinking voices by ;
No sound comes now of shrieking;~
Let us show what Frenchmen dare!
Force the caves, through vapors reeking
Like a kitchen! Vi e Ut guerre!
What s thisand this? Pab! sickning,
Whether woman, man, or beast.
Let us on. The fumes are thickning !
Ho! here s that hath shape at least.
How its horny eyes are staring
On that infant, seeking food
From its broad brown breast, still bearing
Smoke-dried stains of milk and blood!
At our work do any wonder,
Saying, Frenchmen love the fair ?
Sucit fair? Ha! ha! they blunder
Who thus twit us! Fcc Ta guerre!
What s that, so taIl and meagre ?.
Nay, bold Frenchmen, do not shrink
Tis a corpse,with features eager,
Jammd for air into a chink.
Whence is that hysteric sobbiu~ !
Nay, bold Frenchmen, do not draw!
T is an Arabs parchd throat throbbing.
Frenchmen love sweet Mercy s law
Make way there! Gi e him breathing!
How he smiles to feel the air!
His breath seems incense wreathing
To sweet Mercy! Five la guerre!
And now, to crown our glory,
Get we trophies, to display
As vouchers for our story,
And mementos of this day!
Once more, then, to the grottoes!
Gather each one all lie can
Blisterd blade with Arab mottoes,
Spear-head, bloody yataghan.
Give room now to the raven
And the dog, who scent rich fare
And let these words be graven
On the rock-side Vies Ia guerre!
The trumpet sounds for marching!
On! alike amid sweet mends,
Morass, or desert parching,
Wheresoeer our captain leads!
To Pelissier sing praises!
Praises sing to bold Bugeaud!
Lit up by last nights blazes -
To all time their names will show!
Cry conquer, kill, and i~avage!
Never ask who, what, or where ?
If civilized, or savage,
Never heed, but Five Ta guerre!
DesTrtucrmoN OF WAsPsWe observe, from the
Scottish newspapers, that the Earl of Traquair has
for several years past given a liberal reward to the
children in the neighborhood for the destruction o
those troublesome insects during the months of
April and May. At that period every wasp is in
search of a location for a nest, and if unmolested,
would become the parent of thousands. Owing, it
may be supposed, to the limited fall of rain or snow
last winter, these noxious creatures have been un-
usually numerous this season, as the following ac-
count will show The children, about fifty in nom-
her, were desired by his lordship to attend t Tra-
qunir house with their spoil every Saturday aftet--
noon, where they were counted by the gardener.
and each one paid so much ~ rdozen. On the 26th
April there were delivered 736 dozen, on the 3d May
114 dozen, on the 10th May 59 dozen, and on the
17th May 6431 dozenmakimig in all the incredible
number of 18,876 wasps nests in the course of Ibur
weeks, and in one parish. It may be presumed, if
each of these had been allowed to multiply, how-
ever favorable the season may prove, there would
have been little fruit or honey left for miles aroumid.
WATER IN THE DusEvj.Since the French obtained
a footing in Algeria en~in ems have been employed
to procure water in the most sterile districts by means
of Artesian wells. We learn hum the Revue de
Paris, that one of them IXI Fournel, has coma-
pleted a minute suive~ and ne assures his govern-
ment that the nature of the ~i-ound, at th. foot of the
Algerine mountains near the sea-coast, offers facili-
ties for extracting la~~e supplies of water from an
inconsiderable depth below the surface. If wells can
be sunk so as to pmocloce the grand delieratum to
agriculture, the face of toe u hole country will he
materially chao6ed ~e~et tion ~viil be made to en-
croach on the now profitless expanse of the Sahar
desert, and many spots, tvhielm are productive of
nothing but sand, will afford f for man and pas-
tura~e for beasts. There is no reason to doubt that
such a happy change may in time be effected; for
the Artesiami system, wherever it has been tried., has
succeeded. Clmoadme s Liii rooT.
30t~EER SIIOOTING iN CANADA WEST.
From the United Service Magazine.
SUMMER AND WINTER DEER SHOOTING IN
CANADA WEST.
BY SIR J. E. ALEXANDER, K.L.5., 14TH REGT.
When morning beams on the mountain streams,
Then merrily forth we go,
To follow the stag to the slippery crag,
Or to chase the bounding roe.
I.
XENOPHON, the celebrated warrior and historian,
and likewise a keen sportsman, thus gave his
opinion of huntingthat it tended to make men
hardy, both in body and mind, and thence to form
the very best soldiers, the chase bearing a closer
resemblance to war than any other amusement;
that it habituated men to bear fatigue, and the in-
clemencies of the weather, kindled their loftier
feelings, awoke their courage, and nerved their
limbs, which also from exercise became more
pliant, agile, and muscular; that it increased the
powers of all the senses, kept away careful or
melancholy thoughts, and thus by promoting both
mental and physical health, produced longevity,
and retarded the subduing effects of old age.
Vive la chasse ! then, as a fitting recreation
for soldiers, and if pursued in moderation, and
without unnecessary cruelty to, or indiscriminate
slaughter of the game animals, it is undoubtedly
deserving of all the commendations accorded
to it.
The true hunter is generally known by his
bronzed complexion, his hands innocent of the
tender kid skin, his keen eye, his firm mouth, his
independent air and elastic step. Most military
men are sportsmen, more or less, and it is quite
fitting that released, for a short season, from the
duties of their profession, they should he either
pursuing their game on leathern or on horses
shoes, or by the banks of the dark and silent
streams.
We have now to treat of the slaying of deer in
Western Canada, the land by adoption of thou-
sands of Britains hardy sonsa land favored by
nature in productiveness of soil, and in water
privileges of the first order. Long may revo-
lutionary principles be repudiated here, and the
enterprizing farmer and merchant, with public bur-
dens of the lightest description, duly appreciate
and value the form of government and the estab-
lishments under which they thrive!
The brown deer of North America, the Cervus
Virginianus of naturalists, is, like others of its
tribe, most graceful in its motions, proceeding
usually through the forests of its native haunts in
light bounds ; it is found from the shores of the
great lakes to those of the Gulf of Mexico. Its
weight is a hundred pounds and up~vards, and the
prongs of the horns of the male point forwards, in
such a way that it is difficult to conceive host it
could make its way easily through woods that are
at all entangled. But the haunts of this deer are
unlike the interlaced vegetation between the
tropics; and this beautiful denizen of the wilds
is free to roam among the straight and light-
seeking stems of the pine, the beech, and the
maple.
The long and handsome ears of the deer~ are for-
ever in motion, and alert to catch the smallest
sound; its eyes full, black, and swimming, the
gazelle eyes of the Persian poets. These, with
its well-shaped head, taper neck, and slender
limbs, make it when tame an especial pet with the
fair sex. But, alas! for its peace, its venison
amply rewards the hunter for his toils, who sallies
forth to slay a hart in grease, and a juicy
haunch, smoking on an ample trencher, speedily
overcomes all scruples about the propriety of look-
ing for what is good for food.
It was in the glorious summer-tide, when the
forests of the Thames river of Canada West were
clothed in their gorgeous foliage, when the sight
was refreshed with the effects of light and shade
on the landscape, with the green leaves of the
trees, and the bright blossoms of the flowers in the
open glades, when birds and insects were heard on
every side, arid when the face of nature was redo-
lent of beauty and happine~s, that I mounted a
wagon with four companions, all eqoipped in shoot-
ing trim, with broad-brimmed summer hats and
blouzes, or light shooting jackets, festooned with
shot-belts, or powder-flasks, or horns, each grasp-
ing a shot-gun or rifle, and bound for a water
hunt among the Dorchester pines
The laughing, blue-eyed morn,
Called blushes to the cheek of every flower,
And as the zephyr breezes wandered on,
They left a chorus of sweet melody;
Each wood and wild had its inhabitants,
Which crouching lay within the cavern lair,
Or bounded oer the new-made velvet mead.
With a rough and ready span of horses, we
drove rapidly, albeit with no inconsiderable bump-
ing, up the river, passing one of the curiosities of
the western wilderness, in the course of formation,
namely, a plank road, from the laying of which
for miles in various directions, centering in Lon-
don, the garrison town for the defence of the
shores of Lake Erie, the greatest advantages are
expected to accrue to this new country.
Viret in aaternum !
The Thames of Canada is a clear and swift-run-
ning river, flowing from the borders of the Gore
district, over a gravelly and rocky bed, generally
fordable above London, hut with here and there
deep pools, the haunts of the otter. Below Dela-
ware the river is navigable, as it passes on through
rich soil, and with steep banks, to Lake St. Chair.
At its mouth the land is low and marshy, and here
is admirable wild-fowl shooting.
Among other finny inhabitants of the Thames,
are the shad, pike, maskanongd, (a fish of a large
size and of good flavor, though of the pike family,)
and the sturgeon, the largest fish of the western
waters; several feet in length, slender but power-
ful, and covered with tuberches. One of our
hunters had some time before signalized himself
by riding on the back of a sturgeon, something in
the manner of my worthy friend Mr. Waterton,
the wanderer in South America, on the back
of the crocodile. Scofield had struck his fish-
spear into a large sturgeon. which immediately
made off with it; Scofield, like a real sportsman,
threw himself out of the canoe and held on by the
spear, whilst the storgeon, which he occasionally
bestrode, carried him down the river; at last,
tired and exhausted with the burden, in the tnidst
of a great splashing and commotion, the sturgeoa:
gave in.
At a way-side public-house we refreshed with
beer, and ginger-beer, with a lump of ice in the
pleasant mixture.
31DEER SHOOTING IN CANADA WEST.
The weather had been hot and favorable for the
deer being found in the river, to which the inns-
quetoes and flies in the woods drive them in the
evenings, but now it threatened rain, and we knew
if it fell there would be an end of our sport, for
then the deer find pools in the woods, and have no
occasion to resort to the river.
Passing some clearings garnished with stumps,
and inclosed with snake or zi~-zag fences, we
entered the shade of the Dorchester pines, extend-
ing for several miles up the river. The red squir-
rel blithely chirupped and nimbly climbed the resi-
nous trunksthe scarlet tanager, with its brilliant
body and dark wings, flew across the road, from
which rose flights of the beautiful little spring
azure butterfly, chasing one another in circles,
flitting over arid alighting on thc same spot which
they had just quitted.
The pine woods on the Thames, and the oak
plains, offer to the naturalist, in summer, a rich
harvest in flowers, insects, and birds. Among the
plants is to be distinguished the rare and most
curious Indian cup, or pitcher plant (Sarracenea
purpurea,) the leaves of which have their edges
united together, so as to form a deep cup filled
with water, distilled probably from the moss in
which the plant is found. From the circle of
pitcher-leaves rises a stem, eighteen inches in
height, and crowned with a circular leathery
flower with five reddish petals.
The use of the water in the pitchers seems to be
this, (and it is, indeed, a singular arrangement of
the great Creator,) musquetoes are reared therein,
for they are seen to issue from the cups in numer-
ous flights in spring, whilst to support them in
their aquatic stage of life, the small bristles which
line the inside of the lip of the cup conduct flies
into the watery receptacles, where they are
drowned, and are then devoured by the young
brood.
At the entrance of the Pines, a man met us
in a wagon, and one of the hunters said
That man has lost his eye-sight with gain-
bling.
How so i was inquired.
It was thas. He had a good farm, which he
neglected, to engage constantly in gambling. On
one occasion he had sat up eight days and nights
consecutively, and he won another mans farm,
house, cattle, and a steam-boat, but he became
stone-blind from exhaustion, and is now partially
recovered, only sufficient to allow him to drive a
wagon !
What a warning this to those who waste their
nights in changing with each other painted paste-
boards!
The hunter Pixleys place was at last reached,
after a rattling drive of fourteen miles. On
the left of the road, and backed by tall pines, was
a comfortable block-house. -On one side was a
wagon, on the other a well, with the usual lever
balanced on a pole to raise the bucket, a log canoe
was in front, and on the other side of the road was
a commodious barn. Before the door, four men
in their shirt-sleeves played at quoits with horse-
shoes. Pixley himself stepped forward to wel-
come usa picture of manhood, five feet ten inches
in height, stout, with black hair and whiskers, un-
embarrassed, but modest and civil withal, his
rig a low broadbrimmed white hat, dark vest,
and moleskin trowsers.
At the door was the tidy wife, about whom
~clustered five healthy children. We must go
back again to town, said she, for the sake of
the children.
Nothing else would take me there, said the
hunter; I tried to stay in the town before,
and I could nt ; I in never happier than in the
woods.
What game have you in these woods l was
asked.
Bears, racoons, wolves, deer, and sometime~
a lynx is seen. I killed a lynx here last fall.
Till the mid-days repast was ready we prac-
tised with our rifles at a mark, a patch of clay on
a beech-tree ; Pixleys bullet struck within an inch
of this every shot. His brother, James Pixley,
was also a prime shot, and with the keenest eye
for game tracks. The hunters meal consisted
of slices of salt pork, mashed potatoes, good bread
and cheese, raspberries from the clearing,
and cream, the whole washed down with tea, or
brandy and water, according to the taste of the
chasseurs.
Short pipes and cigars being duly lighted, we
set about preparing the jack light for our water
hunt. A blackened hoard with a small shelf to it
was stuck up in the fore part of the canoe; on the
shelf were four large nails to support the light,
composed of hard tallow with a large wick. Put-
ting ash poles and paddles into the canoe, six stout
fellows tackled to, and dragged it through the
bush to the bank of the river, behind the house
here we found another twenty feet canoe, and
seven of us disposing of ourselves in the two,
some standing up with the poles and others with
paddles, we pushed out into the swift stream.
The banks of the Thames were here quite uncut
and uncleared, descending gently towards the
water and clothed with oak and the broad leaves
of the maple; behind these towered the pines.
As we poled up stream in our shirt sleeves and
trowsers, with a warm jacket at hand for night-
work, we saw herons flapping their broad wings
as they wended their way up the river before us
then wild ducks woul4 be descried in a pool, and
making for the shore at the approach of the
canoes, before we had time to scatter them with
No. 4then a racoon with its bushy tail would be
seen scrambling about the trunk of a treered-
headed woodpeckers, supporting themselves with
their strong feet and short, rigid tails, would ham-
mer away merrily with their strong wedge-shaped
beaks at the decayed stems, and with their barbed
tongues draw out from its concealment the slug-
gish grubthe grey and white kingfisher watched
on a branch for its prey in the water beneath, and
then a musk rat would swim across, steering
itself with its broad, black tail, (sometimes they
attempt concealment in the water, by attaching
themselves to a green branch)whilst over head
would float in mid air a noble bald-headed eagle.
Such were the denizens of the forest and flood
which we saw in our progress of ten miles against
the swift current and rapids, with occasional deep
and still pools. In the stony and gravelly bed of
the river ~vaved aquatic plants or eel grass ;
some specimens resembled moss, others myrtle-
leaves, and a third sort, soft cucumbers. These
plants, for the support and concealment of fishes,
are also eaten by the deer during the night
season.
You see, said Pixley, this flat, formerly
cleared, and about five acres in extent; this is
called the Racoon Flat. Here, forty years ago,
when I was a child, the Indians grew their maize.
32DIlIi~R SIIOOIING IN CANAflA Wx~Sr.
We will pass presently the Maskanong6 Flats,
and one or two more, but the Indians have all
abandoned these now, though they still come about
here to fish and hunt.
The red men who wand~r about this part of
Canada wear the blanket coat, winter and summer,
and a piece of printed cotton twisted round their
long black locks, like a loose turban; their legs
are cased in blue or crimson leggings. The
women wear the blanket wrapped around them
from the head to the heel, and are usually seen
about the towns and villages, with baskets of
stained split wood, or light brooms, for sale.
We poled with difficulty up a rapid where a
short time before Pixley and two hunters had, in
descending, been upset against a tree which lay
in the water, and their blankets, coats, hats and
guns, tumbled into the stream. After ten miles
of hard work, we landed at sunset at a rude
bridge, refreshed at a gushing fountain, and col-
lecting some chips and dry wood, soon built up
a fire, and sat round it telling stories till the
night was sufficiently advanced to light the
jack.
The black bear of Canada, when it attacks, first
hugs and then claws down with its hind feet the
breast and belly of its victim. Thus Pixleys
father one day heard a cry of distress near his
house; he rushed out with his gun, and saw an
Indian on the ground with his stomach ripped up,
and a bear gnawing at his wrists and andes. On
old Pixleys approach the bear took to a tree, and
locked down over a crutch; the bunter told the
Indian to fire, but he could not revenge himself,
he was so weak. Pixley then lodged a ball be-
tween the eyes of the bear and dropped hire, then
carried the Indian to his camp, but he died the
same night.
Filling the bottom of the canoes with rushes to
form a comfortable seat, one canoe lighted up and
paddled off noiselessly, the other followed at a
considerable interval.
The night was quite calni, which was favorable
for the jack light. It appeared like a bright star
on the water, whilst the board behind it threw
the canoe and the hunters completely into shade.
The deer, as they stand up to their knees in the
water, and occasionally dash a little over them-
selves with their feet, to clear away the buzzing
musquetoes, lift their heads from grazing on the
aquatic grass, and gaze with curiosity on the light
till it is quite close to them, that is, within twelve
or twenty yards, when the crack of a rifle at once
ends their fatal & uriosity.
Fireflies sparkled past us and glanced among
the trees like the eastern Feast of lanterns ; no
sounds were heard but the rippling of the water
over the stones, the occasional cry of the whip-
poor-will, and the deep bass of the bull-frogs
trumpeting forth their serenade. Presently the
boom of a distant gun comes up the stream, and
we hope for success to our comrades; mosquetoes
in myriads fly out from the hush, and play round
and dash into our light, so as almost to extinguish
it, they looked like a moving halo round it. Pix-
ley, dipping his paddle into the water, under the
jack, was observed quietly to let it slip out of his
hands, and it floated away astern: he lifted his
rifle, and pointed tow~trds the left bank of the
river; our rifles were immediately cocked without
a word being uttered, and the steersman directed
the bow towards two greyish objects in the water;
a sharp volley awoke the echoes in the river, a
splashing was heard with loud breathing; we
dash towards the land, then sprang from the canoe
among the reeds, and lighting pine chips, searched
for the traces of blood; they were soon perceived
on the blades of grass and on the bushes; a mortal
wound had been inflicted, from the frothy appear-
ance of the blood, but the wood was too dense to
track it far in the dark; next day, however, a
clever terrier, Captain, followed the trail,
drove a fine large buck into the water, where it
strove with him for half an hour, when two saw-
yers, who were engaged at a log near the scene
of conflict, put an end to it by smiting our deer
on the head with a stone.
This was the result of our first water hunt,
or manner of killing deer in the dog-days. On
another occasion, near the same spot, the first
hunters piece missed fire, the second (Mr. Dease,
the son of the intrepid Hudsons Bay traveller,)
took effect. The first hunter then jumped into
water and seized the woonded buck by the horns,
the third hunter drew his knife to cut its throat,
when with its hind leg it knocked him nine yards
off and under water; recovering himself, but los-
ing his knife, the three hunters fought with the
sturdy beast for twenty minutes; at last, ~vet to
the skin, they tired him out, got his head under
water and drowned him.
After a sound sleep on our straw couches, we
rose with the sun, and refreshed with a bucket of
water poured over our heads in the open air, then
walked off into the woods on a still hunt after
the deer again.
The still hunt is merely walking noiselessly
through the forest, keeping a bright look-out, and
searching for deer in the haunts where they are
wont to browse in the day-time. A breeze is
favorable for the still hunt, as it prevents the step
of the hunter from being heard.
Where the trees had been hewn down, there
were plentiful crops of raspberries, which are
greedily eaten by the bears; the mandrake, of
mysterious properties, spread its broad leaf at our
feet, and the ruby-throated humming-bird was ob-
served glittering in the sun, with green and gold
coat, now darting through the air like an arrow,
or starting and hovering in front of the flowers
of balm or clover, like the motions of a dragon-fly.
I secured a specimen of this strange summer visit-
ant to Canada, and kept it alive for some time, by
giving it syrup from the corolla of a flower.*
From these snatches of the natural history
of this forest it will be seen that it possesses much
interest for the lover of nature. A beautiful col-
lection of bright-plumaged birds may be made in
summer on the banks of the Canadian Thames;
and here, instead of feeling dull during a short
sojourn, we may exclaim with the poet,
T is nought to me,
Since God is ever present, ever felt,
In the void waste, or in the city full,
And where He vital breathes, there must be joy.
But to make long tarry in the woods of Brit-
ish North America, in the hot months of June,
July, and August, requires great endurance, a
deep sense of duty, and an object of much greater
importance than that of hunting to enable one to
hold out.
* It is said that an Irishman, newly arrived, and anx-
ious to secure a humming-bird, caught a large bee in-
stead; it stung him, when he cried out, Holy Moses!
how hot its little fut is 1
33flEER SHOOTING IN CANADA WEST.
Lumberers and Indians then flee to the woods,
they are so close, and so infested with poisonous
flies and mosquetoes. The lumberer fells and
squares his timber in the winter, and drives it
down the streams on the melting of the snow
and ice. The Indians frequent the seacoast in
summer, and thus escape the plague of flies.
Surveyors in the forests in sftmmer subsist on
salt pork, because it is portable, and goes a great
way, hard biscuit, and black tea. Spirits are
fatal, for they increase the virulence of the poison
of the small dipterous black fly; but even without
spirits, not many days elapse in June, before the
face and hands are poisoned and swollen up from
countless bites; day after day, and from morning
to night, whilst streaming with perspiration, the
attacks are incessant. The mid-day meal is
usually eaten in the midst of smokes, produced
with wet moss, which assist in keeping at bay
the torments; but when swampy ground is ap-
proached, or rain is near, such myriads of venom-
ous flies arise round the luckless explorer, that his
veil is no protection, and he is forced to carry
under his arm a smoking torch of cedar-bark. At
night he sleeps in his clothes, of course, on fir
branches, with his feet to a fire, a light shed of
canvass over him, supported by. two forked sticks
and a ridge-pole. Occasionally single wolves
come and angrily howl at him, but in winter they
sometimes attack in troops. At nightfall the hot
needle punctures of the black and sand-flies cease,
but then the phiebotomist mosqueto wields his
long lance. Oh! it is a rare pic-nic for the flies in
summer, but a desperate fight fir the explorer, as,
axe in hand, and arrayed in millers hat, red shirt,
and drill trowsers, he exercises his muscles over
the logs, with a modicum of his coarse provisions
in his haversack, hewing his way through the
thickets, skin and clothes torn, bruised with heavy
falls of the prostrate trunks, finding himself at one
time up to his middle in a swamp, shortly after
this, assisted with spikes on the inside of his
lumberers boots, shinning his way to the top of
a hundred-feet pine tree, to reconnoitre and mark
with his compass his future course ; or, pole in
hand, steering a small raft of logs, a catamaran,
down the rapids of a forest stream, with no com-
panion all this time save his sturdy woodsmen,
axing their way, chaining, or carrying the
loads in packs.
Like the plague of fleas inducing cleanliness, so
does the plague of flies induce to clearing and
settling the woods ;flies eschew the clearings.
To get to the open fields again, after a summer in
the woods, constantly seeing the same trunks and
the same vast banks of forest, is, indeed, Paradise.
Expertus loquor.
Ii.
(The scene changes to Winter, and to Kin gstort, on
Lake Ontario.)
The ground has now lost its verdant mantle, is
hard and crisp with frost, and covered with snow;
the trees, deprived of their glories, extend their
naked limbs into the chill air; the music of the
groves has ceased, and a death-like silence reigns
around. But it is needful not to succumb to the
melancholy influence of a Canadian winter, and
being absolved from drill and pipeclay for a
brief space, (though when duty is to be done, it
ought to be performed with zeal and energy, and
on no account to be considered a bore,) broks
also being laid aside, we adventure to make a
break or tx o in the long winter, by engaging in
the healthful sport of deer hunting, albeit regret-
ting all the while that the lingering savage nature
within us inclines us.to slay a buck or twain, and
with relish to partake of the venison.
Arkright, a hunter skilled in woodcraft, L en-
a~ed with his dogs. He brings his sleigh, drawn
yapan of stout ponies, and as there is no provant
in the forest homestead whither we are about to
proceed, saving pork arid potatoes, the sleigh is
freighted with half a sheep, bread and biscuit, tea
and sugar, pepper and salt, and a small barrel of
beer! My brother chasseurs were determined not
to trust only to their guns for viands. Covering
our nether man with buffalo robes, our upper being
encased in blanket coats, or grey Canadian cloth,
with the usual hood attached, and grey or black
fur caps on our heads, we disposed ourselves in
couplets in the sleigh, and with each his rifle
between his knees, we trotted blithely away from
the garrison.
With many a pleasant jest and answering laugh,
we slid over the natural railroad of snow and ice,
past clearings, and through forests mostly cour-
posed of evergreen firs, (thus affording a partial
relief to the general white of the landscape,) and
at length reached the lake called Loughborough.
and the frame dwelling of the hunter Knapp.
It was diverting to observe the unloading of
the sleigha stalwart Artillero walking into
the house with the half sheep on his shoulders,
followed by the beer barrel borne aloft by the
governor, so termed by his familiars, from at-
tachment to his rubicund physiognomy, and his
disposition entirely disposed to good fellowship;
next followed an A. D. C., a prime shot, carrying
buffaloes and a long basket, the contents of which
Father Mathew ought not to be cognizant ofthe
rear was brought up by rifles, and the munitions
of war and of the chase.
The wiry old hunter Knapp, with his aquiline
nose and long grey locks, his wife, and sons and
daughters, received us with friendly greeting,
swept out a room for us, and filled up a huge fire
of logs in a wide chimney. Forthwith commenced
culinary preparations, slices of mutton arid potatoes
were duly cooked, item pork, tea drawn, mus-
tard scientifically mixed; all the hunters aided and
abetted, both in getting up and in doing justice to
the feast, after which wrapping ourselves in our
buffaloes, each chose what portion of the floor
suited him best as to propinquity. to the fire, which
a small boy, a sort of forest imp, attended.
The youngest of the party, not yet filled out for
his lengthto wit, two yardsthough possessing
a good spirit for the chase, after donning a night-
gown reaching to his ankles (unlike an old hunter
who sleeps in his clothes) ensconced himself in the
bunk, a long wooden box which serves for a seat
by day, and, when opened out forms a coffin-like
bed by night. Having used interest with one of
the damsels of the house, he had secured no less
than three pillows, but which he did not long enjoy,
for whilst sitting up to arrange the buffalo about
his feet, his two nei~,hbors on the floor, still wide
awake, quickly secured the pillows, and fei~ned
sleep, whilst he bemoaned his fate for a while en
chemise before the fire, his nighteapped-head reach-
ing to the Jersey frocks, powder-horns, and hunt-
ing-belts which garnished the smoked rafters of
our apartment.
At early dawn there was a move. Your true
.34DEER SHOOTING IN CANADA WEST.
hunter riseth with the lark; but it was laughable
to observe the twisting and turning of one or two
who had for a long time previously been accus-
tomed to indulge in repose after the rosy-fingered
Aurora had opened the portals of the morning ;
at last, with desperate effort, they sat up, rubbing
their eyes and yawning fearfully, and doubtless
cursing their folly in joining a party which chose
thus to get up in the middle of the night.
A meat breakfast was quickly cooked and de-
spatched. Knapp and his soiis mustered their
dogs, and the hunters went off to place them-
selves in pairs, at the runways, or tracks
where the deer usually pass, and towards which
they would be driven by the dogs. Knapp had
lost a son, a fine young man, not long before ; he
was passing through the forest with a cousin be-
hind him, in Indian file; the latter was carrying
his gun on his shoulder, holding it by the muzzle;
a twig caught the trigger, and the charge of
buckshot was lodged in young Knapps groin;
the poor young man died i[i great agony in a few
days.
Loughborough Lake, where we now sported, is
a beautiful expanse of water, twenty miles long,
surrounded with fine woods, and studded with
islands. A week at Lougliborough in the fall
is delightful. Then the woods put on their coat
of many colors, most enchanting to behold ;
the sugar-maple displays all the shades of red
from deep crimson to bright orange; the birch
and elm flaunt in yellow livery; the ash and bass-
wood in sober brown; whilst the deep green of
the fir tribe sets off the glories of the other sons
of the forest.
The flies do not annoy in October! Now is the
tinie to take ones pleasure on the clear water, to
launch the skiff or bark canoe, to bait the hook for
the savory white fish, to still hunt in the woods,
when the wind prevents the noise of the foot-
steps being heard on the ash leaves, the first to
fall, or else to drive a few deer into the lake, and
there with a blow of a paddle to secure what
venison is wanted for ones self and friends, and
assist the farmers to get the rest for their winter
store. None should be wantonly killed. Indis-
criminate slaughter of fish, flesh or fowl is un-
manly and quite unworthy of a genuine sports-
man; humanity ought to temper his ardor in the
chase, with all its exhilarating accompaniments.
1 is merry, t is merry in good green wood,
When the mavis and merle are singing,
When the deer pass by, the hounds are in cry,
And the hunters horn is ringing.
Though Loughborough Lake was now locked
up in ice, and snow-covered, and no wing of bird
about or upon it, yet in April, when the ice disap-
pears, in a day it would teem with life, and innu-
merable wild fowl would disport on its bosom.
On our way to the runways, ~ve were met by
three loafish looking blades, the chief of whom
was Billy Blackaby, an idle, good-humored, but
cunning rogue, who neglected his farm for the
chase; and whose grey frock, trowsers, and
mocassins, were picturesquely ragged and torn.
Supporting himself on his long gun, he said that
he had met with no sport, and was going home.
Afier a short talk, in an undertone, the three
trotted off, and soon after we were posted at our
stations by Arkright.
The aid-de-camp and myself took up our watch
at a runway, indicated by the recent tracks of a
deer on the snow, passing from north to south,
among the pine and spruce-trees. We walked to
and fro, partly concealed behind a large hemlock,
our shooting irons ready at hand. Not a
sound was heard in the wood, save the occasional
tapping of woodpeckersnow far off, now loud
and close at hand. We waited impatiently for
the baying of the dogs; at last, after an houfa
delay, the yelp of Prisoner, Knapps favorite
hound, was heard. We were instantly on the
alert; a few twigs broke near us, and then a fine
young buck, upwards ofa hundred pounds weight,
with brown sides, white belly, and bushy tail,
(longer and fuller than those we see in Europe,)
bounded towards us. He was end on, and we
fired a little too soon; he was wounded, for blood
and hair on the ground showed the grazing ball,
but his career was not stopped at the time; he
turned to the right, and was soon out of sight
among the grey trunks. We follo~ved the blood-
stained track, but Billy Blackaby, who had posted
himself out of sight at a likely stand, secured
the prize and quietly hauled it off, as we next day
learned.
Whilst we were advising as to future~ pro-
ceedings, another yelp was suddenly heard, and a
plump roe dashed past us, within twenty yards.
A fatal bullet and buckshot sped from two bar-
rels, and she plunged forward and fell ; the long
hunter, who was near, then rushed up and fleshed
his knife in her iieck. Tying her legs together,
and thrusting a branch through them, we carried
her to the sleigh at the edge of the forest.
We were joined by the other hunters; and then,
after some friendly exchange of shots from pis-
tols, (liquor flasks, but which, if success is de-
sired, should be avoided, as pistolling assuredly
unsteadies the hand and also makes the extremi-
ties more susceptible of cold,) we returned to our
den at Knapps where we spent a ;nerry evening
with story, jest, and song.
One day, when old Knapp was looking for a
stick of timber in the woods, lie espied one of his
dogs run[iing towards him, seemingly in a fright
presently a large wolf appeared in chase, Knapp
stepped at once behind a tree, and as the monster,
gaunt and grim, passed, Knapp with a dex-
terous blow of his tomahawk disabled it in the
loins, and then carried home its skin.
Dear ! said he to me, you re fond of
boating. Well me and my sons will go into the
woods and pick out a stick of cedar, and make
you a skiff this winter, fourteen feet keel, strong
and light, that will whip everything of its size,
pulling a pair of oars, on Lake Ontario. The
craft was accordingly commissioned.
Wolves become dangerous in the New Bruns-
wick forest after the first snow-fall ; they then
hunt in packs as I previously mentioned. Last
October, an explorer of the line of the new mili-
tary road, whilst alone, near the Upper Mira.
michi river, was suddenly surrounded by a pack
of hungry wolves, barking and howling for their
prey; he tried to escape, but if his party of axe-
men, hearing the savage yells, had not run
towards him, he must have been sacrificed.
An instance of extraordinary craftiness in
wolves was told me by an esteemed friend, of
sporting propensities, living near Quebec. He
was on one occasion on the wooded heights com-
manding a view of the picturesque Lake Mem-
phremagog, in the eastern townships of Canada.
It was near sun-set, and at some distance below
35 36 DEER ST4OO1~INc* IN CANADA WEST.
him was an open meadow whete a solitary deer at a time too when no other bird was near. Their
was seen grazing; presently two wolves issued cross bills, which at first appear a defect, are
from the forest, and looked towards the deer, admirably contrived for separating the scales of
They seemed to be planning an attack, when, after the seeds of the coniferous trees from which they
an apparent consultation, one went off and, circling usually derive their sustenance; the bill also as~
round the deer, lay down behind it; the other sists in climbing.
wolf then made an open attack; when the deer Hearing that there was a fiddle in the neigh-
turned and fled, but as it passed the first wolf, he borhood, we commissioned it, and danced, coy-
sprung up and fastened upon the unfortunate ani- ing the buckle more Sco1ic~, till it was time to
mal, which thus quickly perished, turn into our buffaloes on the floor. Next morn-
My first wolf was encountered on an interesting ing, with three pair of socks and mocassius, we
fieldthe plains of Assaye, whilst hunting, not for essayed snow-shoeing; and it was ludicrous to
wild animals at the time, but for the remains of witness the mishaps of those who figured on the
the mango-tree, shattered with ball and bullct, broad racquettes for the first time; at one moment,
and near which the victor, in that bloody and one shoe overlapping the other, the wearer would
most remarkable action, for some time stood. be rivetted to the spot, at the next he would be
With the assist
ance of the potail, or head man of on his knees, or prostrate on his face, among the
the village, whose left arm had been hewn off by snow. However, with a little practice of lifting
a Mahrattah sabre, the roots were found and a the front of the shoe well up and sliding the after-
part dug up. part over the snow, the trick was found out.
Turn we from the east to the land of the To get to our hunting-ground, we put our
west again. traps on a sleigh, and tramped after it
Next day at Knapps we had good sporttwo through the forest; occasionally stopping to hew
more deer. We built up a fire to leeward of our way with the axe through the fallen trees,
the runways, and resorted to it after the runs, to when the objectionable practice of pistolliug
discuss our proceedings and thaw our fingers. with pocket flasks was resorted topour passer
The third day w~ts not so goodKnapp, got le temps; nothing unsteadies the hand of a hunter
one deer, but we got none; though we rematned so much as this, or renders him more susceptible
from ten till dark on sentry at our posts, walking of cold, as we noticed in others, during aforced
to and fro, or sketching, seated on a log. One journey in Russia some years before.
of our hunters was disabled with a fall on his We took our stations at the runways; Tuttle
knee, by hurriedly jumping out of a sleigh, which went round a hill barking like a dog; three does
was beginning to go backward down a hill, soon appeared, and one fell. It was eveiiing, and
when he thought it should be going up ; he was time to make camp in the snow. An old tree
sent into town on straw in the bottom of a sleigh. was first felled as the back-log of our fire;
Altogether we got five deer in four days hunt- then two crutches, seven feet out of the ground,
ing, and were away six days; we returned rather were set up at the distance of twelve feet from
triumphantly, with the legs of our venison stick- each other, and on them was laid a ridge pole;
ing up about us in the sleigh, and we immedi- on it rested, at an angle of 450, other poles, and
ately cut up and divided the spoil among the on them were carefully disposed hemlock
messes and our friends, and were thus able to feathers, or small hranches of the hemlock-pine,
gratify par la bouclte, those who had not the op- broken off, and laid like thatch on the sloping
portunity to assist at the sport. roof of our wigwam; which was open in front to
The last week of deer shooting, the end of the huge fire, and closed at the sides with boughs.
January, and snow lying thick on the ground, we Lastly, the snow was shovelled away from our
engaged in another hunting scrape, and this lair with wooden spades, formed with the axe,
time on snow shoes. Bailie, now our chief and boughs were spread for our bed on the
huntsman, and with another aid-de-camp, a royal ground.
engineer, and a Highland officer, we took the After our evening meal of pork, biscuit, and
roadthe two sleighs laden with ourselves and tea, and hearing strange tales from Nat Lake,
with provent and munitions of the chase. We Indian Jim, and other rough woodsmen, who ac-
slid along merrily to the music of the sleigh bells, companied us, we tried to sleep; it was not easy
and felt all the exhilaration of the bracing air, at first, as the cold was 520 below the freezing-
while the sight was gratified by each tree and point, which would rather have astonished a per-
branch being crusted over with frosted silver, son first from the old country; at last we all be-
consequent on hard and sudden frost succeeding a came unconsciotis under our buffaloes, save those
damp fog. who tended the fire.
To assist the warmth of the fur robes about our In the morning, after sundry saltatory niove-
lower man, and vary our journey, a vigorous ments, running round the trees and springs in the
snow-ball fight was maintained between the air, to supple our limbs, somewhat benumbed
sleighs, but which the horses did not seem either with the intense cold, we broke our fast, by
to understand or to relish. frizzling pieces of meat on the ends of sticks
After a drive of seventeen miles we reached in our old Cape fashion of the Karbonatje, and as
Tuttles place on Dog Lake. A small log house the sleigh could go no farther, we divided the
received us, consisting of two rooms and a porch baggage, and each carrying a portion (the good-hu-
in front, to assist in keeping out the cold; mored Sapper shouldering two thirty-five pound
round us was an amphitheatre of ridges covered bags) we made tracks for Horseshoe Lake.
with trees. It was a quiet, sheltered spot, by the This lake is a fine piece of water in the heart
side of a forest lake; at the door, the children of the forest, with islets and rocky shores, arid
threw crumbs to some familiar cross-bills, high trees about it; as we passed over it a wild-
It was very interesting to notice these winter looking dog rose suddenly from a dark substance
visitants from the solitudes of Hudsons Bay, and on the iceit was a deer, which had been runDEER SHOOTING IN CANADA WEST.
down, lying fr~zen and half devoured; the dog
would not allow itself to be caught, but snarled
defiance and seemed an independent hunter.
We took up our position for the night in a de-
serted lumberers shanty of logs, a considerable
part of the roof of this small square hut being
wanting, to admit the passage of the smoke; we
found in it some old mocassins, a hunters pot and
axe, and two hind-quarters of deer. One of
these was immediately thawed in a hole made in
the ice of the lake, and roasted by means of a
string hung from a beam, but during the opera-
tion those who sat up to assist were done
brown with the soi~oke, which filled the cabin
and refused to make its escape. The cold was
still intense, and several had to rub snow on frost-
bites. Those who came for pleasure thought
there must be some mistake !
Next morning we crossed over the ice on the
lake, ascended, with some labor, a wooded ridge
which ran along its eastern shores, and then
posted ourselves at intervals near runways, indi-
cated by our hunters, who then went to find and
drive the deer.
The cold was so great that it was dangerous to
touch our guns with the unmittened hand ; the
skin would have come off if we had done so; fortu-
nately there was no wind, so that the thick grey
frieze or blanket coats enabled us to hold out at
our stations.
I took with me a young forester to assist in
looking out; two pair of eyes (and ears) are best
on these occasions. We got behind a prostrate
log, and looked to our caps; a slight grating sound
was heard on the snow on our right, and a fine
four-year-old buck bounded at a hand gallop past
us. He was broadside on; we levelled and fired.
A bullet took effect on his neck; he stumbled for-
ward, and struggling for life the hunting knife
put an end to his pain. The brawny Tuttle com-
ing up, he cut branches and twisted them into
withes, then tied the legs of the deer together,
and placing the other end of the bush rope round
his own body, he dragged him, over the snow to
the wigwam, from thence the sleigh carried off
the game.
The youngest hunter of this party, a pleasant
fellow and a keen sportsman, having previously
seen so rapid a discharge of pistols and fear-
ing the want of ammunition on the way home, had
cunningly, as he thought, buried a favorite square
bottle of rum in the snow near the wigwam, but
not unobserved by our new acquaintances of Dog
Lake, for when he now proceeded with glee to
dig up his treasure, it was nowhere to be seen,
and they all laughed !
A hunting scrape, as it is called in these
western regions, is pleasant enough when you
see deer and shoot them, but when, as sometimes
happens, one stands on a runway, with the ther-
mometer considerably minus zero, for half a
dozen hours, without a chance of a shot, then
might the exclamation of an old campaigning
friend of mine be excused D the runway!
I 11 give anybody leave to flog me with nettles,
or furze bushes, or thorn bushes, if you ever catch
me on a runway again in winter. I was fria
horrid, could not light my pipe, pistol all fired
off, and all 1 saw was a little bird !
We returned from whence we came, satisfied,
in the mean time, with our experiences of the
Canadian forest, to a glimpse of whose sylvan
shades we have taken the liberty of introducing
those who may desire to draw on the light deer-
skin mocassin, to harden their limbs over the
windfalls, or broil their rations at the camp fire,
whilst practising the merie arte of wood-craft.
PARIs ACADEMY OF SCIENCESThe last two
sittings have not presented much interest. M.
Muller, of Berlin, was elected corresponding mein-
her of the section of zoology and comparative
anatomy.A paper was received from M. Le-
blanc, relative to some experiments with oxygen
and litharge.In a former sitting of the academy,
M. Millon gave an account of some experiments
as to the influence exercised by very small quanti-
ties of foreign substances, in the decomposition ef
water by metals. M. Barreswill now explcies
this influence in the following manner: We
may admit, says he, that if zinc, tin, and lead,
are attacked by hydrochloric acid with greater
energy under the influence of only a few drops of
a solution of the salt of platina, than without this
influence, it is because the precipitated metal
(platina) in contact with the precipitating metal,
constitutes a true voltaic element. In fact, if in-
stead of a solution of platina we make use of a
piece of platina wire, and touch it with the metal
to be dissolved, we obtain the same result. If
arsenic accelerates, as we all know it does, the
decomposition of water, by zinc, (a phenomenon
analogous to the presence of platina,) whilst it
checks the action of acids upon iron, this apparent
anomaly arises from the fact of the deposit formed
upon the zinc being porous, whilst that which
covers the iron is impenetrable, like gilding. The
proof of this is, that if we scrape a surface of iron
thus arsenicated, and replace it in the same liquid.
the reiiction becomes stronger than upon the same
iron when entirely cleaned for the process. This
protecting envelope is not necessarily metallic; it
suffices for it to be impenetrable to liquid, adherent,
and insoluble in the bath. Thus marble is not
dissolved in concentrated nitric acid, because it
covers itself with an insoluble coating of nitrate of
limeA letter was received from M. Leopold
Pills, announcing that he has in his hands some
isolated crystals of amphigene and pyronene,
which were thrown up from Vesuvius on the 22d
of April last, a circumstance never before known,
Some of the crystals are as large as hazel-nuts.
The Coming of tite Mammoth; The Funeral of
Time; and other P ~ By HENRY B. HIaSr.
Mr. Hirst is an American, who, during the
intervals of his preparation for the bar, amused
himself by penning stanzas, which were pub-
lished in different periodicals, and are here col-
lected, with some apparently original verses.
Taken altogether, the poems are occasional or
miscellaneous; for though the volume contains
several tales, they are brief and simple, little
more than an incident told. The Coming of
the Mammoth, an Indian tradition, versified, is
not an exception to this remark : though the long-
est poem in the hook, it is not the most successful.
Mr. Hirst is not able to reach the grandeur of the
primeval ages of the Red Indians, when the human
race was threatened with extinction by the ravages
of a giant mammoth, and the Deity himself had a
struggle to destroy the creature of his own hands.
The other poems are frequently pretty, or some-
thing more; they are fluent, harn~onioushtmt
echoes. The best, to our liking, are Isahelle
and Geraldine ; the style of the last, as well as
of some others, caught from Tennyson or Cole-
ridge.
37LIFE AT THE SOUTHA LYNCHERS OWN STORY.
From the Picayune.
LIFE AT THE SOUTHA LYNCHER S OWN
STORY.
BY T. M. FIELD.
I never fight when angry, gentlemen.
James Bowie.
I GO hi for reprisals, gentlemenby the ~ter-
nal heavens, reprisals! Seize on abolition prop-
erty in New Orleans, Natchezwherever found.
Seize on the Yankee scoundrels themselves, and
exchange them for our own kidnapped slaves
nigger for nigger, by thunder!
This violent speech, delivered with savage en-
ergy, by a thin, wiry-looking manone of a
group collected around the stove in the social
ball of a Mississippi steamboatwas received
with a shont of applause hy all assembled.
Good, by gracious ! That s the talk!
You re a hoss, judge ! & c., followed the ex-
plosion, like a rattle of small thunder, till an
enormous figure, in a white hat and blanket coat
yet, withal, a good-looking manarose slow-
ly, stretched himself, and brushed hack the thick
hair from his broad forehead, and then, in quiet,
yet evidently pleased accents, said, with a
smile
Yes, judge, that s the talk, I believe! Gen-
tlemen, we 11 take a little something.
There was a general demonstration as if to
rise, when the barkeeper, who made one of the
crowd, and who appeared to be singularly im-
pressed with the new doctrine of reprisals,
begged the colonel would keep his seat, and
drinks should be brought.
Sit down, colonel, cried the energetic judge,
emptying his mouth of a chew, by way of
preparation for one more drink, and at the same
time running his heels higher up the stove pipe
Sit down; this thing has got to be fixed be-
tween the north and the south, and a little talk
about it wont be lost.
All resumed their seats, the drinks were
brought, and, by the spirit with which fresh cigars
were lighted, it was evident that the subject had
only got fairly under headway in the assembly.
It was in the fall of 18. During the preceding
summer, a couple of slaves had been seduced, and
finally wrested from their masters by the Boston
abolitionists, and the numerous southerners then
at the north, filled with violent indignation, gave
vent to the most furious threats and denuncia-
tions. It is not intended here to argtme, or even
comment upon the vexatious questions of slavery,
but simply to sketch a few features and incidents
of south-western character and adventure.
It was a cold and rainy night; the steamer
plunged along amidst dense shadows, in which
the unpractised eye could not even distinguish an
outline ; the main cabin was spread with mat-
tresses, and the persons around the stove, the last
up, deserting some half hour previously a couple
of card tables, and falling upon an exciting topic,
now promised to make a night of it.
Yes, gentlemen, resumed the fiery judge,
it may seem like a desperate doctrine, but what
except desperation is left us l The crisis must
come! My slave is my property, guaranteed to
me by the constitution. If Massachusetts Sanc-
tions the seizure of our niggers, who shall cry
shame on Louisiana, should she retort upon their
ships l
Another cheer of approval further stimulated
the speaker, who rushed into a vehement relation
of several other abolition outrages, which led to
certain stories of southern vengeance upon abo-
lition agents; a sort of vindictive phrenzy spread
among the company; fresh drinks were called in;
Lynching was a theme upon which all were
eloquent, and well known cases of punishment
under that summary code were repeated, com-
mented and gloated on with a savage eojoyment
which promised a rough fate for the next tract dis-
tributor which might be caught by any of the
party.
During this time the colonel, though evidently
of kindred sentiments with the company, had pre-
served his equanimity; he smoked his cigar de-
liberately, listened to the indifferent speakers with
an assenting smile, or, may be, a Just so, doc-
tor, or a Quite correct, gentlemen ; but,
finally, after the relation of a retaliating cal)ture
and execution under horribly exciting circumn-
stances, he, in mild tones, and with an aspect
that indicated anything but ferocity, signified his
itmtention to relate a little circumstance himself.
Im not a passionate man, gentlemen, said
he, drawing up his leg slowly, and adjusting his
vast bulk in the chair; I m rather a calm man,
and apt to bear putting upon, rather, but I go in
for Lynch law, some, for all that. 1 had a little
case of my own with one of those abolition gentle-
men once, and I acted up to the law fullyon my
honor 1 did ,gentlemen. I am a family man, gen-
tlemenand a friend who comes to see me, or a
stranger wishing to put up, if an honest-looking
white man, always finds my house his homne
while in it. I keep servants to wait on them,
purposelyI do,.gentlemen, and treachery under
such circumstances is a mean thin cit s not a
white mans act, gentlemen.
An emphatic assent was expresssd on all
hands. Well, I lost two boys, valuable ser-
vants, gentlemen, by entertaining wolves in
sheeps clothing, and I determined that the next
one who called should be punished some, and I
did nt wait long, for, somehow, they had got the
hang of my house, gentlemen, and took the ad-
vantage of my temper. A very polite stranger,
with his wife and a dearborn, came along; he
had something, however, the matter with his eyes
when I looked at him; and so I put my own
servant, Jakea very good boy, gentlemena
perfect WHIYE MAN, and whom I never said a
cross word to in my lifeI put Jake to tend on
them ; and sure enough, after I was in bed, back
came the boy to say that the gentlemmian had of-
fered to rim off! Well, I told Jake to go with
himfirst leaving word which way he was to
travel, and then I went to sleep. In the morning,
Jakes wifea decent wench, gentlemena per-
fect ladycame to tell me all about the arrange-
ment; so taking my overseer with me, I started
after timem.
I should THINK so! Wake snakes!
Go ahead, judge ! A dozen eager exclama-
tions evinced the zest with which the climax of
the story was expected. The narrator, how-
ever, proceeded with a sang froid that was inimi-
table.
I had nt gone but a few miles, when back
comes Jake, meeting me. rrhe fox, gentlememm,
had smelt a trap and PUT, with his wife and
wagon, leaving time boy to take care of himself.
Of course I did nt drop the matter, but followed
38LIFE AT THE SOUTHA LYNCHER~ S OWN STORY. ~39
up and soon got on trail. I tracked him back a
good many miles from the river, hut missed him
near a lake which was back of our plantation, and
lo~t a good deal of time. Towards afternoon, re-
turning by another road towards the river, be-
tween the bayou and Dr. Bolls new clearing, I
heard voices, and in a minute drove right upto
a crowd of neighbors, who had got my visitor, his
wife, and his dearborn right in the middle of
them! The fact is, gentlemen, one or two of
them bad got notice that there were wolves about,
and were on the lookout for varmint as my ac-
quaintance drove in among them.
Ha! ha! ha! A general chuckle of de-
light was succeeded by a grin of anticipation.
I found my friend, gentlemen, talking right
and left, like a lawyer, making everything straight
and agreeable, when suddenly he caught sight of
me, in the next moment of Jake; and, gentle-
men, if ever a man gave up the ghost before the
breath was out of him, it was that fellow; his
eves glazed ; a dark circle settled round them,
while his lower lip, blue and quivering as the
blood left it, after making an effort, as it wer~, to
recall the relaxed jaw to its duty, finally fell
with it; and there the man sat, staring at me,
motionless, with the exception of his throat,
which worked spasmodically in the effort to sup-
ply itself with moisture from the parched mouth.
Gentlemen, he was the picture of a small rascal
caught in a full snap! I first blushed that he
was a white man, and then next that he was an
American!
American hll ! interrupted one of the pilots
of the boat, who, perched upon a pile of trunks,
had hitherto said nothing; he was a dd Yan-
kee, that s what he was ! This distinction was
recognized with great applause, of course. The
colonel resumed:
There was just about a tolerable court on the
spot, gentlemen, and it was agreed to try the fel-
low right thar. There was evidence besides
mine, for one man had followed him up along the
plantations for twenty miles; but yet the woman
kinder stood between him and his due, and I
thought I would question her too. She was
young, gentlemen, with a simple lookhad evi-
dently neither the heart nor the wit of a woman
about her, and at my first questionsomething
put it into my head Are you married to this
man 1 she burst into tears,and sobbed as if her
heart, would break. I had him taken away at
once, and out it all camewith no thought of
injuring her companion though ; it was the simple
impulse to relieve ~ timid mind by confession.
She was not his wife. She had taught school in
Tennessee, where this man saw her, and first
persuading her to aid him in the circulation of
abolition tracts, finally seduced and carried her to
New Orleans., where, growing more bold as he
extended his acquaintance with the country, he
bad made another arrangement with the society
one of greater profit as of greater risknamely,
to run off negroes from the plantations along the
coast. Gentlemen, this is a mighty long story
bar-keeper
Oh, go, no ! Go ahead, colonel. Drinks
at the moment were declined, but the shorter ope-
ration of taking a fresh chew by way of filling
up the pause.
I had another question to ask the woman.
Do you love this man P said I. The poor crea-
ture wept worse than ever, gentlemen ; sh~ said
her only desire was to go to some friends in Illi-
nois, where she hoped to be welcome and to get
along more wisely. He abuses you, then, said
I. Oh, said she, I would nt mind that, if I
thought he would rit kill me. In short, as I hope
to live a mild and considerate citizen, gentlenen,
that livid, cowardly scoundrel had, (luring my
pursuit of him, after threatening his victimnow
his burtbentill she was nearly lifeless, actually
attempted to drown hr in the swamp! I need nt
tell you, gentlemen, how unanimous the verdict
was in this case ; the woman, for whom we sub-
sequently made up a subscription, was moved off
towards the nearest house: the man, a mighty
small figure, anyhoxv, shronk to half his natural
size ; discolored as if the last corrupting change
had anticipated the grave; his arms bound behind
his backand shivering on the ground, too spent
to exhibit a spasmwith the rein which lie had
lately held in his hand buckled around his neck
for a halterlike a thing too abject even to hang
awaited the selection of a crotch for him to swing
froni.
It may be supposed that the picture, the horrid
features of which ~vere thus in detail described,
had gradually excited the phlegmatic limner; nut
at all! His sentences swelled, not from the mere
impetuous gathering of ideas, but, as it seemed,
from a good-natured desire to make the story as
interesting as possible to his hearers, while it in
no respect exhibited nervoosness,there was not a
flash of passion during the whole narration. This
was not the case with the bearers, though. The
eyes of the judge seemed bursting from his
head in eager expectation, while the chewing
operation on his part was for a moment sus-
pended; others were like him; a few again, by
an eager but painful contraction of the bro~vs, be-
trayed a softer natureat any rate, more sensitive
nerves.
Yes, gentlemen, there was a moments delay
in choosing a limb; in the mean time, by way of
hanging the culprit with a little life in him, some
one had given him a mouthful of whisky, when,
recovering his tongue, he began to beg; from
begging, gentlemen, he gut to screaming; blood
actually trickled from his straining eyes, and it
was getting unpleasantno dignity about it
An idea struck me! I just climbed up, hand
over hand, a pretty stout sapling close by me
Im a heavy man, gentlemen, and, as I mounted
over, the young tree caine with mebent like a
fishing rod
rhere was a breathless silence in the company;
an enormous roach, peeping from a crack in
the panelling, could hardly have crossed without
being heard, while each eye was riveted horribly
upon the speaker.
The culprit, gentlemen, took the idea sooner
than any of the others, and his shrieks and ravings
were dreadfulreally dreadful ! Another climbed
after me, and, with the added weight, down we
both came, half hid amongst the high boughs of
the top, and the loose end of the rein was made
fast in a second. One instant, for Gods sake!
I ye got children! For the sake of my soul!
half tittered scream, gentlemen, mingled with the
rush of the boughs, as we dropped to the ground,
and the nigger thief, with a jerk that snapped his
neck, flew into the air, describing the half circle
as spanned by his halter, and swinging back to us
again from the other side !
A long breath was drawn by the whole cam-SELLING A WIFE.
pany. The judge was the first to break the
succeeding pause.
XVeIl, that was an idea! We II drink on
that, gentlemen, by thunder !
All moved to the barsome two or three si-
lently, the others as to the mere change of enjoy-
ment. Colonel, cried the judge, name your
liquorthat was an idea!
Yes ! exclaimed another, with no less en-
thusiasm, a firstrate idea
A splendid idea U A glorious idea !~ was
the general chorus.
Yes, gentlemen, complacently observed the
giant, as he raised his glass, I think myself that
it was a sweet idea !
SELLING A WIFE.
A CORRESPONDENT of the New York Commer-
cial, giving to that journal some interesting
Sketches of the Midland Counties of England,
introduces the follo~ving l)ictnre of a scene in Staf-
fordshire amongst the local peasantry, whose con-
dition would seem from the sketch to be much de-
based and degraded:
The town crier, in front of a dirty tavern,
rings his bell and gives notice that a womanand
her little babbyxvill be offered for salein the
market placethis afternoonat four & clockhy
her husbandMoses Slatterotherwies Rough
Moey.
A universal roar of laughter followed this an-
nouncement, and all the people answered, hurrah!
The women in the street bent double in their con-
vulsions of merriment, and the shopkeepers col-
lected in twos and threes, congratulated each other
on the promised scene, and leaving their shops to
the care of their apprentices, retired to the tavern,
to drink success to Rough Moey. The crier
went to different parts of the town, to make his
announcement, and a group of ragged children fol-
lowed him.
On came the crowd with a hurricane of hurras,
as they neared the market place; in the centre
three or four fellows with sticks kept back the
eager crowd from crushing upon a man, woman,
and infantthe lions of the day!
The man was a stout, burly fellow, of about
forty-five or fifty: his face had been originally
deeply marked with small pox, but the smaller im-
press of the disease had been literally ploughed
out by deep blue furrows, which the horrible fire-
damp had left in his face and neck. He had lost
one eye, and a wooden stnmp supplied the place
of his right leg. The expression of his features
was that of a fiend, a brutal animal fiend.
The woman ~vas much younger, probably about
twenty-three, with as much good looks as was
compatible with her slavish occupation in life; a
young child of about a year old ~vas in her arms,
quite undisturbed by the horrid uproar around. A
common hempen halter was put loosely around her
neck, the end of which was held by her husband;
she was evidently in her best attire; her face was
washed, leaving a boundary line of coal dust ex-
tending along the edge of the lower jaw, and her
hair was gathered up into a knot behind, confined
by a blue ribbon, which floated in gallant stream-
ers.
If one might judge from her appearance, her
situation was anything but unpleasant to her feel-
ings, and in reply to the encouraging exclamation
of Neer mind, Sal! keep up ye artnever say
die ! & c., she replied with a merry laugh, and
assured them that she would be glad to get rid
of the old rascal ; that it sarved her right for
marrying such a good-for-nothing scoundrel. At
length they arrived at the centre of the market
placesome ale was sent for; all the fiddlers and
all the hurdy-gurdies were pressed into service,
and all struck up in simultaneous discord, before
the business was entered upon.
After all these preparations were concluded, an
inverted tub was brought, on which the woman
stood, still holding her child. Another was pro-
vided for time auctioneer-husband; a ring was
cleared, by some stout fellows with sticks, and the
business of the sale commenced.
Perhaps some people may shake their heads in
doubt at the scene I am attempting to describe.
All I can say in answer isI saw it; and it was
not the first tinie I had looked on such a scene. I
know the law does not allow it, but I saw it done,
and am not the apologist, either of the law or the
people.
I learned, upon inquiry, that jealousy was the
cause of the present auction, as it always is of
similar transactions. That Rough Moey, in
his green old age, had given a pit wench a new
gown, and other articles of dress, with a fortnights
treat, to marry him; that she had afterwards
transferred her affections to a young collier, upon
which Moey became jealous and beat her; beating,
however, did not cure love, but only awakened
thoughts of vengeance. She watched her oppor-
tunity, and finding him one night very drunk, she
gently unstrapped and removed his wooden leg and
thrashed him to her hearts content; whereupon
Moey, kno~ving perhaps that love is strong as
death, became tired of keeping a woman, the
affections of whose young and delicate heart were
absorbed by another, and adopted the present mode
of procedure, as the only recognized legal method,
with which he was cognizant, of transferring her
to her admirer.
Laerdies and gentlemen, said Moey upon his
tub, holding a quart pot in one hand and the halter
in the other, and winking with his remaining eye;
Laerdies and gentlemen, crc s all your good
healths. He took a long, long draught, then in-
verted the pot, to show that it was empty, and said
Ah-h-h! About one hundred and fifty colliers
laughed and said, Thank thee, Moey ! and the
same number of women said, Well done, old lad!
A young man who was evimlently to be the pur-
chaser, supplied the wife with, and she kept up,
a running fire of short sentences with the women
around. Notwithstanding this bravado, I could
see her eyes filled with tears, and her heart was
beating fiercely. Her voice faltered at last, and
giving her child to the young man, she sat down
on the tub, buried her face in her hands and wept
bitterly. All laughing suddenly ceased; here was
no more joking, but a clamor of abuse that would
have overwhelmed Babel, the women, old and
young, poured upon Moey. It was very contagious,
that feeling of indignation, when once raised, and
the mens brows began to contract, when the pur-
chaser expectant said, in a rather savage voice,
Come, now, old chap; let a a done wi this
foolery; go on
Laerdies and gentlemen, said Moey, we
all on us knows how the matter stands; it canna
be helped, so we need nt be so savage about it.
Then fortifying himself with another drink, and
winking hideously with his remaining eye, he con-
40 THE SONG OF STEAM. 41
tinued Laerdies and gentlemen, I ax lafe to op-
l)OS~ to yer notice a very honsome young ooman
an a noice little baby, which either belongs to me
or somebody else. Here was a general laugh,
and good humor was gaining the ascendant.
Her s a good cratur, continued Moey, and
goes pretty well in arness, with a little flogging.
Her can cook a sheeps head like a Christian, and
mak broth like as good as Lord Dartmouth. Her
can carry a hundred and a half o coals from the
pit for three miles; her can sell it well, and l)ut it
down her throat in three minits. A general
laugh of applause followed this, and the grateful
audience pressed more drink on the orator.
Now, my lads, continued Moey, roll up
and bid spirited ; it s all right, according to law;
I brot her thron oh the turnpike, and paid the mon;
I brot her withaa halter, an I had her cried ; so
there s nothing to pay, and the law consarn s all
right; so if yer gie me enough for the ooman I
gie yer the young kid into the bargain. Now
gentlemen! who bids? Goin, goin, goin, I cant
relaycant dwell on this lot as the auctioneer
says.~~
The orator ceased, and great cheering fol-
lowed his speech. Eighteen pence, cried a
voice from the cro~vd. Eighteen pence ! re-
peated Morey, only eighteen pence for a full-
grown young unman! why youd have to pay the
parson seven and six for marrying yer ! an here 5
a wife ready made to yer hands for eighteen pence,
eh! who bids B
I 11 gie ye half a crown, old rough un, said
the young man, who they all knew would he the
purchaser. I 11 tell thee wot, Jack, said Moey,
if theet make it up three gallons o drink, her s
thine; I 11 ax thee naught for the baby, and the
baby and the halter s worth a quart. Come, say
six shillin ! After a little chaffin about the price,
the young man agreed to pay for three gallons of
ale; which it was stipulated was to be had forth-
with, and in which himself, his newly bought wife
and one or two friends were to participate.
The bargain being concluded the halter was
placed in the young mans hand, and the young
woman received the congratulations of numerous
dingy matrons; she wiped her eyes, and smiled
cheerfully; her new husband impressed a sharp
barking kiss on her cheek, by way of ratifying the
agreement; and amid shouts and laughter the mob
broke up and dispersed; the new wedding party
going, I proceeded to my inn.
THE SONG OF STEAM.
BY G. W. cUTTER.
HARNEss me down with your iron bands,
Be sure of your curb and rein;
For I scorn the power of your puny hands
As the tempest scorns a chain.
How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight
For many a countless hour,
At the childish boast of human might,
And the pride of human power.
When I saw an army upon the land,
A navy upon the seas,
Creeping along a snail-like band,
Or waiting the wayward breeze;
When I marked the peasant faintly reel
With the toil which he daily bore,
As he feebly turned the tardy wheel,
Or tugged at the weary oar;
LXXIII. LiVING AGE. VOL. VII. 3
When I measured the panting coursers speed,
The flight of the courier dove,
As they bore the law a king decreed,
Or the lines of impatient love
I could not but think how the world would feel,
As these were outstripped afar,
When I should be bound to the rushing keel,
Or chained to the flying car.
Ha! ha! ha! they found me at last,
They invited me forth at length,
And I rushed to my throne with thunder blast,
And laughed in my iron strength.
Oh! then ye saw a wondrous change
On the earth and the ocean wide,
Where now my fiery armies range,
Nor wait for wind or tide.
Hurrah! hurrah! the waters oer,
The mountains steep decline,
Timespacehave yielded to my power
The world! the world is mine!
The rivers, the sun hath earliest blest,
Or those where his beams decline;
The giant streams of the queenly West,
Or the orient floods divine.
The ocean pales whereer I sweep,
To hear my strength rejoice,
And the monsters of the briny deep
Cower, trembling at my voice.
I carry the wealth and the lord of earth,
The thoughts of his god-like mind,
The wind lags after my flying forth,
The lightning is left behind.
In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine
My tiresome arm doth play,
Where the rocks never saw the sun decline,
Or the dawn of the glorious day.
I bring earths glittering jewels up
From the hidden cave below,
And I make the fountains granite cup
With a crystal gush overflow.
I blow the bellows, I forge the steel
In all the shops of trade;
I hammer the ore and turn the wheel,
Where my arms of strength are made;
I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint;
I carry, I spin, I weave;
And all my doings I put into print,
On every Saturday eve.
I ye no muscle to weary, no breast to decay,
No bones to be laid on the shelf,
And soon I intend you may go and play,
While I manage this world by myself.
But harness me down with your iron bands,
Be sure of your curb and rein,
For I scorn the strength of your puny hands
As the tempest scorns a chain.
Licking Valley Register.
CHEERFULNESS. Cheerfulness and festival spirit
fills the soul full of harmony; it composes music for
churches and hearts; it makes and publishes glorifi--
cations of God; it produces thankfulness, and serves.
the ends of charity; and when the oil of gladness.
runs over, it makes bright and tall emissions of light
and holy fires, reaching up to a cloud, and making
joy round about: and therefore, since it is so inno--
cent, and may be so pious and full of advantage,
whatsoever can innocently minister to this joy does
set forward the work of religion and charity.Jerem~t
Taylor.USE 01 TUE LEAGTJEPUNCH.
IJSE OF THE LEAGUE.
WHATEVER may be thought of the measures and
movements of the League, it is at least likely
to be the beginning of a mercantile party advocat-
ing more comprehensive views than any the nation
has yet seen. My more genteel friend, Mr.
Bright, as Mr. Cobden calls him, may be a wor-
thy antagonist of Mr. Hudson ; hot Mr. Cobden
himself belongs to a higher class. Mercantile
politicians have hitherto been considered identical
with advocates of a special interest. Your mer-
chant in parliament was usually a successful
trader, whose wealth gave him influence, and who
from his experience was heard with respect on
facts lying within his own sphere, but from whom
no one expected sound views on general principles.
The mercantile member of parliament was an
oracle to all parties on the actual profit and loss of
the shipping or any other branch of trade, and an
implicit follower of the political leaders with whose
party he had been connected by birth or other
accident. He never aspired to develop a theory
of trade, or look upon the commerce of the empire
as an organic whole. He stuck to his own line
of business, and sought to win favors and conces-
sions for it by making himself useful to his party.
Ricardo the First was almost a solitary exception
to this general character.
But the mercantile politicians of the League, be
their theory right or wrong, regard the whole
commerce, and indeed the whole industry of the
nation, as an organic whole. They do not ask for
favors to one interest at the expense of another.
They announce a general law which they assert
regulates all industrial and commercial enterprise;
and from this general law they endeavor to deduce
a system of commercial policy that will give fair
play to all. They have been forced to take this
high ground by the necessity under which they
~felt themselves at the outset of disclaiming con-
nexion with any political party. Yet the neces-
sity of enlisting a large body of supporters, and the
narrowing influence of an association, may have in
part counteracted the effects of this isolation from
party; which, moreover, has not always been
very faithfully carried into effect. The League
~having one special avowed object, its opinions on
every other question have been cut and shaped
with care so as to present not even the appearance
of discordance with those which they avow with
reference to the corn-trade. Again, the League,
like every other association, is composed of much
sincere enthusiasm, (always respectable,) a few
good heads and energetic characters, and an im-
mense quantity of rubbish. These influences bias
the politicians of the Leagueprevent them from
bringing to the investigation of every commercial
question that arises minds sufficiently courageous
and independent to confess mistakes and oblige
them at times to adopt arguments and courses of
action which their better judgment and taste would
reject, lest they should offend some of their parti-
sans. Prom these deteriorating influences, how-
ever, time will emancipate the politicians of the
League school; experience teaching them the
necessity of throwing aside arguments which only
expose them to triumphant rejoinders, and desist-
ing from tricks of policy which only alienate
honest men. And, on the other hand, their very
adversaries will be obliged, in self-defence, to
adopt those habits of comprehensive investigation
and logical argument which are the proper sources
of the Leagues strength, wherever it is strong;
for dialecticians of this hi,,b class can be success-
fully encountered by none but kindred spirits.
The contending parties will educate each other,
and strike out truth between them.
The Leagues hundred thousand pounds, and
even its associated members, are matters of com-
paratively little moment. There it isa fact,
great or little. It will survive till its work i~
accomplished, whatever attacks may be made
upon it; and it will not survive much longer,
although desperate efforts will be made to give it
a prolonged vampyre-like existence by the paid
agency it has called into being. But the more
comprehensive and systematic method of discuss-
ing questions of commercial policy, which it has
been such a powerful instrument in extending
from makers of books and members of political
economy clubs to the great body of the people,
will not pass away. These controversies will in
future be more and more conducted in tIme spirit of
the Cobdens and Barklies, and less in that of the
Hudsons and Brights.Spectator, 16 Aug.
PUNCH.
THE TREASURES OF THE nEEP.
THE following intelligencequoted from the
Hampshire Telegraphcomes from free-hearted,
liberty-loving America
By a private letter which has reached us from
Gibraltar, we are informed, upon good authority,
that 20,000 slave shackles, for men, women, and
childrenin all fourteen cart-loadshave been
fished up from the wreck of the American war-
steamer, Missouri, lately burnt at that port.
Now, as the timbers and other relics of our
Royal George have been worked into boxes and
nick-nacks, we propose to Americansthe traders
of the human shambles, the money-seeking breed-
ers of Gods likeness in ebony that they should
turn the penny with these 20,000 slave shackles.
If wrought into utensils for domestic use, or what
would still be better, turned into ornaments for the
women of America, they would endear to them
that sweet principle ~vhich coins money from the
marrow and the bones of man. Some of these
shackles might also be manufactured into steel
clasps for the Bibles of the very religious breeders
of the black.
is [We presume that this story about the shackles
entirely untruebut think it ought to be inves-
tigated, and contradicted by authority.Living
Age.]
THE STATE OF THE ROYAL NURSERY.
THE venerable Homer, they say, sometimes
nods; but our equally venerable laureat seems to
be always snoring. Nevertheless, we cannot help
regretting that he should have missed many good
chances of coming before the public; among
others, that furnished by the Queens Visit to
Germany. We consider that in the composition
of the following lines, in connection with that
event, we are absolutely doing his work for him,
and we accordingly expect him to bestow a leaf
from his chaplet on us, if not to stand a
bottle of his official Malmsey. With this brief
preface introduce we our more brief poem; to
wit
42PUNCH.
SPECULATION.A SONNET OF THE PALACE.
I wonder what the royal children do,
Now that their gracious parents are away;
Whether like mice, when puss is out, they play,
And turn their princely nursery upside down;
Presuming on the absence of the crown,
Frisking and frolicking, with gambols gay,
And shouting Whoop and Hip, hip, hip,
hooray !
To use a common phrasetill all is blue?
For the blood royal, sure, is human still;
And well we know what children are about,
What time the darlings know their mother s out.
But whither wanders my presumptuous quill?
Ha~ly, whilst thus I build my royal rhyme,
The babes august are crying all the time.
TO SIR E. BULWER LYTTON, BART.
Sta,You dedicate the last edition of your
Zanoni to Gibson the sculptor, in these words:
I, artist in words, dedicate to you, artist whose
ideas speak in marble, this well-loved work of my
matured manhood. I love it not the less because
it has been little understood, and superficially
judged, by the common herd. It was not meant
for them.
Now, Sir Edward, this is not fair to the circu-
lating libraries. Its all very well to talk of the
common herd, and say it was not meant for
them, with a curl of your fine lip; but you
know it was meant for everybody who could pay
threepeuce for a perusal of the volumesand very
popular it has been, especially with ladies-maids
and milliners.
You call yourself artist in words ; this is not
original. There is a man in Oxford Street who
calls himself artist in hair, and you ought, in
justice, to dedicate your next novel to him.
There is an analogy between your work and his,
which I cant discover between yours and Gib-
sons.
His material is as flimsy, his workmanship as
dexterous, as your own. He will spin you a land-
scape or a cipher, a memento mon or a motto, with
equal facilityand it shall be but hair after all.
So you, Sir Edward, have spun for us a senti-
mental highwayman, a high-so uled felon, a specu-
lative seducer, a philosophic dandy, and yet the
stuff of all was one and the same self, Sir
Edxvard, self.
Why are you always complaining? The pub-
lic read your novels ; the publishers pay for them:
you are a lion at dinners, a thing to point at in the
streets. What would man have more? It is all
very well to put off a clever pinchbeck imitation
for toldwe grant the skill of the workmanship
and the workmanbut it is too bad to insist on
our acknowledging it to be genuine gold, and to
call us common herd, when we give you a
sturdy no.
Forgive your friendly monitor for the tone he
has taken towards you. We have no objection to
your considering yourself ill-used; but you become
a bore when you are always dinning it in our ears.
A play of yours is successfulwe are a dis-
criminating public. Your next play is damned
we are a common herd. Your Pilgrims of the
Rhine makes a hit in Germany; you dedicate one
edition to the German public, as philosophical
critics, or something of the sort.
You must not be allowed to fancy you hold the
scales quite so firmly and uncontestedly ; that your
43
works are the gauge and test of artistic judgment
and taste, in this way; and it is to remind you of
this, that we have taken up our pen, with which,
nevertheless, we subscribe ourselves,
Your admirer (within limits,)
PUNCH.
PUNCH ON THE SILEwORN.
So dazzling is the magnificence of the ladies
dresses at the balls and assemblies of the nubility
and gentry, that it is but a safe precaution, on
entering one, to put on a pair of green spectacles.
The finery, however, in a short time becomes
tolerable; and then the now thinking mind in-
quires, what did it cost? We refer that question,
in a financial sense, to the lordsand gentlemen
whom it concerns, and who will discuss it, no
doubt, with a due proportion of groans. Fine
fashions cost something more than fine fortunes.
Silks, it is well known, cannot be produced with-
out silkworms; but it is not known as generally
that their making up involves the sacrifice of num-
bers of those poor things.
The silkworms we allude to possess legs and
arms, which are not, however, by any means n
the condition in which arms and legs ought to be.
These said silkworms are very generally kept shut
up in close, ill-aired cages, at work, not only from
morning to night, but also from morning to morn-
ing, in consequence of which they are mostly very
sickly, and numbers of them are continually dying
off. Need we say that our silkworms are the
creatures commonly known as needlewomen?
Now the disease most incidental and most fatal to
these human silkworms is consumption. It is a
shocking, though very common, occurrence, to
hear of a young lady destroyed in her prime by
the malady just mentioned; whose origin it is no
less common to hear ascribed to a cold caught at a
ball. Now, as the atmosphere of Almacks is
much more consumptive than that of Billingsgame,
and as dances in the open air on a village green
are considerably less dangerous than at the Hano-
ver Square Rooms, we have our doubts about
the connection of the disease, in such cases, with
cold.
The question has been mooted, whether con-
sumption is contagious. We do not mean to
assert that it is ; and we would not frighten any-
body, especially a sensitive young lady, or her
anxious mamma, unnecessarily ; but we do declare
that we should not, were it consistent with our
sex, at all like to be in the frocks of those
whose dresses have been worked by consumptive
fingers. We shall say no more on this subject,
except that we hope we have now thrown out
a little hint, which may induce those for whom
it is intended to interest themselves, for their
own sakes, in behalf of the over-worked silk-
worms.
SONG OF THE soanin SWEETHEART.
I loved thee for thy money,
For wealth, they said, was thine;
But, finding thou hast none, I
Thy heart and hand resign.
Think not I wish to pain thee,
Deem not I use thee ill
I like thee ;but maintain thee,
I neither can nor will.
I thought thee quite a treasure
A boni2 fide sum,44
And dreamt of joy and pleasure
That never were to come
The housethe houndsthe horses
Thy fortune would allow;
The winesthe dozen courses ;
That dream is over now!
Not for thy charms I wooed thee,
Though thou xvast passing fair;
Not for thy mind I sued thee,
Though stored with talents rare:
Thine income t was that caught me
For that I held thee dear;
I trusted thou dst have brought me
Five thousand pounds a year.
That hope, alas! is blighted,
rphereon I will not dwell;
I should have been delighted
To wed theebut, farewell!
My feelings let me smother,
Hard though the struggle be,
And try and find another,
Rich as I fancied thee.
PUNCH 5 aEoENcY.
IETRODUcTION.
The only man of any mark
In all the town remaining,
I sauntered in St. James Park,
And watched the daylight waning.
The Speakers lips, I said, are sealed,
They ye shut up both the houses;
Sir Robert s gone to Turnabout field,
Sir James to shoot the grouses.
The queen and all the court are out
In Germany and Flanders,
And, happy midst his native kraut,
My princely Albert wanders.
No more the dumpy palace arch
The royal standard graces
Alone, upon his lonely march,
The yawning sentry paces.
Beneath an elm-tree, on a bank,
I mused, (for tired my hunch was,)
And there in slumber soft I sank,
And this the dream of Punch was.
THE DREAM.
I dreamed it was a chair of gold,
The grassy bank I sat on;
I dreamed Saint Edwards sceptre old
I wielded for a baton.
Men crowded to my throne, the elm,
In reverend allegiance;
And Punch was published through the realm,
The jolliest of regents.
Back came the ministerial rout
From touring and carousiug;
Back came Sir Bob from Turnabout,
And back Sir James from grousing.
I turned upon a scornful heel,
When Graham asked my favor;
I sternly banished Bobby Peel
To Turnabout forever.
To courtly Aberdeen, I sent
A mission influential,
To serve the Yankee President
As Flnnky Confidential.
Lord Brougham and Vaux in banishment
I ordered to old Reekie,
PUNCH.
And Stanley to New Zealand went
Ambassador to Heki.
And Kelly, whom the world assails,
But whom the bar takes fame from,
I made Lord Viscount New South Wales
Where poor John Tawell came from.
And then I asked his grace, the duke,
What ministers to go to,
On which he generously took
The cabinet in tote.
O then! all other reigns which shine
Upon our page domestic,
Were mean and dim compared to mine,
That regency majestic.
A nd ages hence the English realm
Shall tell the wondrous legend
Of Punch when at the nations helm,
Her Majesty~s high regent.
Around my empires wide frontier
No greedy bully swaggered,
Nor swindling Yankee buccaneer,
Nor savage Gallie braggart.
For threats and arms were flung aside,
And war-ships turned to traders,
And all our ports were opened wide,
To welcome the invaders.
At home the cottier coursed his hare,
Beside the duke his neighbor;
The weaver got his living fair
For his ten hours of labor.
And every man without employ
Got beefnot bonesto feed on,
And every little working boy
His page of Punch could read on.
And Irishmen learned common sense,
And prudence brought them riches;
Repeal ceased pilfering for pence
In Paddys mended breeches.
Old Dan was growu~too rich to beg,
And in a union jolly
I linked Mac Hale with Tresham Gregg,
And Beresford with Crolly.
Then gentlemen might earn their bread,
And think there was no shame in t;
And at my court might hold their head
Like any duke or dame in t.
A duchess and her governess
The same quadrille I clapt in;
I asked old Wellington to mess,
And meet a half-pay captain.
The bar and press I reconciled
(They thanked me one and all for t,)
Benignantly the Thunderer smiled
On Mr. Sergeant Talfourd * * *
I know not where my fancy strayed,
My dream grew wilderbolder
When suddenly a hand was laid
Full roughly on my shoulder.
It was the guardian of the park
The sun was sunk in heaven;
Git up, says he, it s after dark,
We shuts at half past seven.
And so I rose and shook myself,
And, satiatus ludi,
Resigned the crown to Royal Guelph,
And went to tea to Judy. LETTER FROM MR. WALSH. 45
From the National Intelligencer.
PARTS OF A LETTER FROM MR. WALSH.
PARIs, August 20, 1845.
Tuz London Globe of the 18th instant has an
editorial article in which it endeavors to show that
the Americans would commit enormous folly in
fighting for Oregon; that they should be satisfied
with continuing to conquer Nature within their
already too ample field.
The Paris Si~cle of this morning gives an edi-
torial column and a half, entitled England and
the United States. According to this journal
the United States may be incited by their success
in the instances of Louisiana, Florida, and Texas,
to inordinate territorial cupidity: England is pre-
paring to arrest their further aggrandizement by
war: her fleets are re~irganized and exercised with
this view; she is making all read~t: Sir Robert
Peel involved France in the Texas qtiestion, but
cannot venture to require of M. Guizot more than
neutrality in the event of a rupture: M. Guizot
will remain neutral; but France might join the
United States without fearing a coalition in the
north: the continental po~vers would not again
league with England; France has the frames
(cadres) for an artny of five hundred thousand
men ; she has a large and well-appointed fleet;
Paris is impregnably fortified; Great Britain might
be revolutionized, and so forth.
It is written from Constantinople that the Otto-
man Porte is vexed and uneasy at the visit of the
Duke of Montpensier, Louis Philippes youngest
son, to Mehemet Ali in Egypt. The old entente
cordiale between the French government and the
viceroy is not forgotten.
Lamartines History of the Girondins will soon
he issued.
The legitimist journal La France, of this day,
has an official communication from Froshsdorf,
near Vienna, stating that the royal (old Bourbon)
family are there in perfect healthy and that the
court of Austria is very attentive to its relatives~
particularly to the Count de Chambord, (Duke de
Bordeaux,) who has been formally invited to the
palace of Schcenbrunn.
The only new phasis in the affairs of Ireland is
the great Protestant Meeting and Demonstration at
Enniskillen. The Dublin Mail (Orange organ)
promised the presence of 150,000 Orangemen; but
the number on the ground doe,s not seem to have
surpassed twelve or fourteen thousand. Some
lords and ladies appeared. The speakers declared
that the Irish Protestants were able and resolved
to defend themselves; all they asked was not to
ha betrayed by the British government. The
London Globe (whig) of the 16th observes: If
the people of Ireland could but agree among them-
selves about what is required to remove the
miseries of their condition, it would much simplify
the difficult problem how that country should be
dealt with by the imperial parliament and execu-
tive. It is more likely that the Maronites and
Druses will agree, concerning the true policy and
action of the Ottoman Porte, than the Repealers
and the Orangemen in any point whatever.
La Presse mentions the project of a French
society for the prevention of cruelty to animals.
We are, says the Presse, the most inhuman
people on earth towards our domestic animals.
The prevention of cruelty would conduce to the
improvement of breeds. The French, however,
are cruel only to animals of burden and draught;
they are exceedingly fond and tender of their dogs
and cats, monkeys and parrots.
A treaty of commerce has been concluded be-
tween France and New Grenada, upon the prin-
ciple of reciprocity. The Journal des D6bats, of
this day, commends the treaty, the direct trade of
France with that republic being now of the value
of four millions of francs; and the D~bats adds:
We must not, in fine, forget that it is on the
territory of that state the Isthmus of Panama is to
open a new pass for navigation into the seas of
Oceania, and that those regions cannot fail to be-
come the centre of a very active commerce. These
considerations indicate the importance of the con-
ventions which we have successively formed with
Venezuela, the Equador, Te as! and New Gre-
nada.
The Jews of P ris make an appeal, through the
press, to the good intentions and magnanimity of
the Emperor Nicholas in behalf of their oppressed
brethren in Russia.
The National of this day devotes half of its first
page to the impolicy of the French interposition in
the Texas case, and to the allegation of the Lon-
don Times that Mr. King and Mr. Calhoun
attributed to Louis Philippe and M. Guizot assur-
ances which were never uttered. The National
expected that the Paris ministerial journals would
reprove the Times and defend the veracity of the
American functionaries. It challenges the Lon-
don reviler to adduce some proof of the imputation
of falsehood. Assuredly, Mr. King neither mis-
understood nor misreported either the monarch or
his minister.
A translation of General Jacksons will is
going the rounds of the French press.
The Vienna faculty of physic have instituted a
formal inquiry into animal magnetism, with a
view to grant or refuse license to practise the
art.
For several months past Mount Vesuvius has
cast up flames, and occasionally lava; of late it
has afforded some new and very curious pheno-
inena of picturesque light.
The private galleries of paintings in this capital
are described in a series of femeilletons of the Con-
stitutionnel. There are some rich and rare col-
lections, which few persons see; but, on the
whole, London is more fortunate, and her treasures
of the kind more accessible.
The London Sun. a paper of high pretensions
and rank, relates that a body of fifty slaves left
Louisiana with the intention of fighting their way
into Pennsylvania! The same geographical oracle
has four or five essays to demonstrate the unsound-
ness and futility of Mr. Greenhows American
claims to Oregon.Colburns United Service
Magazine, for this month, comprises an article
under the title New Albion, alias Oregon. Its
purport is a refutation of the American arguments.
If Oregon must go by another name, New & lum-
bia would answer as well as New Al/Hon. Let me
offer you a pregnant quotation from the elaborate
article
Although the river Oregon has long since
furnished an outlet for the furs of the North-
western Company, little has been known or said
about this territory in England; many were igno-
rant even of its name, although at a period perhaps
not very distant, it may take a prominent part in
the affairs of the world. The opening of the east-
ern ports of China must already have given it im-
portance, which will be vastly increased, should a16
LETTER FROM MR. WALSH~
ship canal, or even a railroad, be brought into rovia with disparaging opinions. The writes
activity across the Isthmus of Panama. There are (probably a naval officer) is, however, enamored
other considerations which will present themselves, of the settlement at Cape Palmas. lie admire~
connected with the vicinity of the Sandwich the work of the American missionaries, and ye-
Islands, and the colonization going on at present grets the injodicions management or insufficient
in the Polynesian Archipelago by the French. It means of the French on the whole coast. Many
should be borne in mind that, notwithstanding the details, besides, of the practices of the natives of
vast extent of our colonies, we hold only this the coast, products, trade, and so forth, render
single point from Behrings Straits to Cape Horn; this lively communication worthy of American
and although it may not deserve the name of a attention.
military post, it ought to become one. We have a daily repast of the movements and
Again, let us look at the probable fruits of the enjoyments of the Duke de Nemours and his fai
Arctic expedition, which has left our shore~ this duchess, at Bordeaux. They paid a visit to the
season. This mission must have another object in vast wine-cellars of Monsieur Guestierthe head
view thaa merely to solve the geographical prob- of the celebrated firm under that namewho was
1cm if America is an island. Its chief design, I created a peer of France some months since.
presume, will be to ascertain if this passage can be They were conducted, hy torchlight and with all
made available for ships or steamers, even for the forms of homage, amid his six thousand regularly
space of a mouth or six weeks in the year. Should distributed casks of claret, of all qualities and
it ever become practicable, even to that limited dates, and they partook of a subterranean banquet,
space, it would be of the utmost value to have a at which specimens of his choicest treasure were
port or ports on the entrance to the Pacific, that loyally served and graciously quaffed. The meet-
would afford repairs and refreshment after the ing of the French royal party with the Spanish at
perilous northwest passa,c. To these advantages Pampeluna is to be forever memorable ; reviews,
may be added the absolute uc essity of having free tournaments, bull-fightsall the old and the new
access to the Pacific for our fur-dealers, as that is Spanish devices and peculiarities of chivalrous and
the shortest route to their best market. These regal hospitality. It may be margined that Nar-
reasons, taken separately or together, may appear vaez and De Ia Rosa could trust Isabel and Chris-
sufficiently cogent to induce our government to tina, and themselves, in the Basque provinces,
take some immediate steps to give the character of which, for six years, warred fanatically in behalf
possession to this settlement; the appointment of of Don Carlos against the mother and daughter,
a goveroor and of one or two magistrates, with the while the British ministry could not venture their
construction of a fort on the right bank of the Ore- queen in Ireland. Scotland, France, Germany
gon or Columbia, to give protection to the traders any terra firma other than the Emerald Isle! I
from the northwest, the bound. ry lines might then should have mentioned above that eight hundred
be settled with the less difficulty. wax-tapers were lighted in Mr. Guestiers vaults
In the same number of the Magazine there is a on the visit of the Duke of Nenaours; that their
Contin nation of the very interesting Remarks on the contents are estimated at four millions of francs;
51/are- Trade in the Thazils, by Comnaaimder Foote, that the processes of preparing the best wines for
R. N. lie is an intelbrent observer and severe consumption were shown; and that one of the
censor. I must be permitted to cite a short pas- flasks had the inscription 1753. The dock-
sage of his remarks: vaults in London are still more curious and attrac-
It can neither be denied aer concealed that tive.
the African slave-trade is carried on by means of The chapters sent to England, of the stages and
I~nglish capital. In the financial year ending on treats of Queen Victoria on the continent, possess
the .31st Decemuber, 1843, the value of English considerable interest for readers acquainted, like
goods exported from Braail (in foreign bottoms) to myself, with the localities and the characters.
the Portuguese settlements en the coast of Africa Our paper le Commerce argues, at length, that the
amounted to 500,000, and t is well known that concourse of crowned heads, grand dukes, and
there is no return trade whatever, except in Afri- cabinet statesmen, must be a political assignation;
can slaves! The consequence is that our own tariffs, conventions, allianeca, bargains, are at the
merchants in the Brazils become indirectly inter- bottom.La Presse, of this day, asserts that, not-
ested in the slave-trade. However much their withstanding the man~uvres, blandishments, and
own lirivate feelings may revolt from the horrors seducements of the British tacticians, the confer-
of this nefarious traffle, yet the payment of their ences of the Zoll-Verein at Carlsruhe will result in
just debts frequently depends on the success of a an increase of duties detrimental chiefly to Great
few slave vessels. Britain. The same paper, reporting the news by
In the Journal des Th~bats of the 12th instant the Cunard steamer, observes that it would be diffi-
there is a column of American statistics derived cult to find a case of frustration (check) so coin-
from the last report of yotir Commissioner of plete as that of the British and French cabinet
Patents. Towards the end, it is said that the cul- and their envoys, in the question of Texas.
ture of the mulberry and the raising of the silk- About three thousand carpenters have gone back
worm have utterly and ruinously failed in the to their business by compromise with the build-
United States. LetFrance, it is added, cease ers. The strike is at an end in other parts of
to fear American competition: the Union will be France.
for her an immense market. We may hope that The poet and peer, Victor Hugo, was lately
the silk-case is not so forlorn with you. What caught in adultery with the wife of an eminent
are the natural obstacles to perseverance and sue- portrait-painter, Mr. Biard. He pleaded his privi-
cess lege, as a peer, from arrest; the woman was
The Paris constitutionnel of the 15th instant sent to prison. Hugo escaped, to travel until the
has a copious epistle dated Roadsted of Monrovia, affair should be forgotten. On the 15th instant
14th January, 1845. It relates to the establish- the husbands demand of a separation wa
ment of the colony of Liberia, amid describes Mon- brought forward in court, and granted; sentenceof imprisonment for three months in a house
of correction followed for Madame Biard ; the
children were assigned to the husband, the wife,
however, to be permitted to see them twice a
month, and to have an alimony of twelve hun-
dred francs per annum. The National complained
in the outset that the gilty peer went scot-free, and
will escape in the end with impunity. A year or
two ago the poet lost a daughter, and acted and
published the most virtuous sentimentality. In
the course of the last session of the peers, he de-
clined the chairmanship of an important committee,
alleging that chagrin for the loss of his mother-in-
law disabled him from composing a proper report.
You are aware that most, the principal, of Victor
I-hugos works are licentious. We must never
confide or believe in the practical morality of man
or woman whose pen or tongue is immoral. Hugo
has a solemn tread and demure air; I have re-
marked, also, the plainness of his dress: his coun-
tenance has never pleased me. Last winter, at a
soire6 of Mr. Guizot, he fixed my attention for
some time while he was engaged in conversation
with his brother peer de Segur, author of the his-
tory of Napoleons Russian Campaigns, and the
contrast, to the advantage of the soldier, in mien
and whole deportment, struck me with force.
The soi-disant Duke of Normandy, who re-
sembled Louis 16th remarkably, and who really
thought himself the Dauphin, died on the 10th
instant, at Delfi, in Holland, at the age of sixty.
Othersperhaps not dupessupplied him with
money for his personation : at different times, he
commanded large sums; the London police offices
and the courts became, in the end, quite familiar
with the domestic affairs and singular pranks of
his royal highness. You have enclosed printed
accounts of the sanguinary tumults at Leipsic,
provoked by religious fanaticism. Our legitimist
oracles affirm that radical and philosophical politics
university propagandismare principal stimu-
lants.
PAnts, August 19, 1845.
Some of the French departments propose the
establishment of a corps of agricultural engineers,
to be educated specially in the way of the engi-
neers for the mines. They would be afterwards
distributed throughout France for the superintend-
ence or aid of improvements in tillage and hus-
bandry.
Lucien Bonapartes Narrative of the Revolution
of the 18th Brumaire, recently published hy his
family, is much criticised in the journals. There
are striking contradictions between this narrative
and Napoleons account of the same event, in the
Memoirs dictated at St. Helena.
Last week was concluded, at our Court of As-
sizes, the trial of a band of thirtymen, women,
and boysassociated for as hideous and disgusting
profligacy as human nature can perpetrate. Coin-
binations of thieves and burglars, more or less
numerous each, have been likewise under trial and
sentence. Men and females of respectable exterior
and in respectable spheres of life often form part
of the very worst of these associations for de-
bauchery and rapine.
The ~i7ourrier Fran9ais reports from official doc-
uments that the agricultural population (Euro-
pean) of all Algeria does not amount to seven
thousand souls ; that the colony is far from raising
enough for its subsistence; that in 1844 an impor-
tation from abroad of 700,000 hectolitres of girain
47
and of more than thirty-five millions pounds of
flour was necessary; that, in the event of a mari-
time war, the colony and troops would be starved
that Marshal Bugeaud has expended in the five
years past five hundred millions of francs, and that
the effective of his armies has never been less than
eighty thousand men.
The central official committee on steam engines
appointed the chief engineer of the mines to pursue
experiments for determining a mode of obviating
or curing the smoke of boilers and engines. It is
stated in the Moniteur that he has entirely suc-
ceeded. The operation was on Belgian coal, which
emits the must smoke. The smoke is consumed
(burnt) by means of the abundant introduction of
air. Hereafter steam factories will not be uncom-
fortable neighbors; the black and thick smoke
gives place to a light and whitish vapor. London
may rejoice.
Versailles is now the rendezvous of many hun-
dreds of the present years contingent of conscripts.
These groups have always fixed my attention, so
many of them seeming mere boysall raw, rustic,
or clownish in the extreme degree. The condition
of the peasantry and the classes on whom the con-
scription chiefly preys, in this department of Seine
and Oise, is far better than that of a number of the
other departments. Yet I have, within the fort-
night past, seen files of conscriptsa hundred and
fifty or more togetherarriving in their crude state,
whose attire, gait, whole aspect and march, were at
least as wretched as those of any gang of negroes
whom I ever beheld under any circumstances in the
United States; and I was sufficiently familiar with
six of the slave States. In a singularly short time
these levies are wonderfully metamorphosed; their
first changes of person and dress, and their drilling,
serve to amuse infinitely the older soldiers of this
large garrison. The recruit becomes in his first
twelvemoath easy in his uniform and exercises,
and quite a spruce military beau, laughs in his turn
at the clodhoppers and tatterdemalions of the next
year.
According to letters from Brazil, the district
granted in the province of St. Catharine as a dowry
to the Princess of Joinville is about to he cultivated
and rendered richly productive, by frce laborers
en cage d for the purpose. Forests and precious
mines are to he turned to account; dock-yards
formed; rice, coffee, sugar to abottnd; and it is to
be seen what free labor can effect on the borders
of two tropical slave regions. Noes verrons.
Last week a manufacturer ofenamnel was arraign-
ed in Paris at the Court of Assizes for an attempt
to poison two rivals in trade. A distinguished
manufacturer of chemical products appeared as a
witness to his general character. The attorney
general said to the witness: You took pains to-
marry the accusedto provide him with a good
match. You must have known that for two years
he kept under his roof as a concubine a married
woman, who has been succeeded by his servant
woman in the same relation. Certainly, an--
swered the witness, but those are peccadilloes4
common with bachelors: once married, they quit~
the last courses of youth, and lead another kind~
of life. This view of matters was thought quite
reasonable. The enamelist was acquitted, after-
five hours deliberation, by the jury: some circum--
stances raised a strong presumption of his guilt;.
A number of his relatives and intimates rushed for~ -
ward to embrace him, and the servant woman,,
Itliiss Catherine, his acknowledged mistress of
LETTER FROM MR. WALSH.48 THE AMERICAN UNIONIRISH COLLEGESFROGS IN STONES.
the day, instantly scaled the benches and hugged
her master and lover, avec effusion. No scan-
dal seemed to he taken on any side. Such incidents
exemplify or illustrate morals and manners.
DISSOLUTION OF THE AMERICAN UNION.
IN the bickerings between Great Britain and the
United States, Jonathan is not to have all the ab-
surdity to himself: patriotic individuals on this
side of the water are bent upon showing that some
Englishmen can be as absurd as any American.
A very enlightened and philanthropic hudy, the
Glasgow Emancipation Society, at their last meet-
ing unanimously resolved, That it is the duty of
the friends of liberty and equal rights in Great
Britain to COMBINE, and, by Christian, peaceful,
and bloodless means, to seek the dissolution of the
American Union, as the gigantic enemy of freedom
and the rights of man.
Here is a resolution which will in America be
manna to every Hunter~s Lodge, every knot of
Sympathizers, every gang of Repealers, every
clamorer for the annexation of Canadato all in
the Union who hunger for a war with England.
If the people of England could adopt or act upon
this suggestion, they would violate the first princi-
ples of international ethics, and render a stable
peace impossible. The plain English of the reso-
lution is, that it is the duty of British subjects to
combine to effect a revolution in the United States.
The flourish about Christian, peaceful and
bloodless means, is mere verbiage: revo-
lutions are not made with rose-water. Some-
thing worse than war against America is de-
nounced in the resolutionthe establishment of a
propaganda in this country to disseminate among
American citizens disaffection and disloyalty to
their own government. Who could blame a
citizen of the Union for taking fire on reading the
resolution l Fancy a missionary hoard estab-
lished in the United States to republicanize our
own country!
Perhaps it is going too far to claim this piece of
absurdity as of domestic manufacture. The Eman-
cipation Society, by unanimously adopting, made
it in one sense their own; but the honor of
framing and offering it to the meeting is claimed
by an American citizen! Mr. Henry C. Wright,
of Philadelphia, has established his title to the
authorship, in a letter to the Glasgow Argus;
admitting that it may be said he acts the part of
a traitor to his country, but adding, my moral
obligations are not hounded by time or place.
IRISH COLLEGEsThe Dublin correspondent of
the Morning chronicle thus announces the settled
establishment of the first of the new provincial
colleges.
The government, I understand, have finally
determined upon establishing one of the provincial
colleges at Cork. Dr. Bullen, the secretary of the
local committee at Cork, has arrived in town, and
had an interview with Sir Thomas Fremantle, at
Dublin Castle, this day. There is every expec-
tation that one of the most extensive and varied
private collections of books in the United Kingdom
will be given, as an endowment, to the new eel-
lege at Cork. This library is the result of thirty
years collection by Dr. Murphy, Roman Catholic
bishop of Cork, at an immense expenditure, chiefly
out of his private fortune. At the meeting of the
committee, in Cork, on Saturday, Dr. Bullen made
the following statement Through all his pro-
ceedings he (Dr. Bullen) had consulted as a pri-
vate friend with the Right Reverend Dr. Murphy;
and he had been given to understand by him that
he intended to devote his immense library of
130,000 volumes to the benefit of the public. Now
it so happened, that in the colleges bill a clause
had been framed giving permission to private indi-
viduals to make donations of such libraries to the
colleges. He need not tell the meeting that such
a library as that of Dr. Murphy would be an im-
mense acquisition to the college.
The Armagh Guardian states that Archbishop
Crolly has subscribed 1,0001. towards founding a
divinity chair in the Ulster College.
The correspondent of the Times warns Mr.
OConnell that he is losing ground in his opposition
to the new colleges.
FROGS IN STONES.
WE have several apparently well-authenticated
instances on record of frogs and toads having been
found enclosed in masses of rock, to the interior of
which there was no perceptible means of ingress.
It has been the fashion, however, with naturalists
to dismiss all such cases on the assumption that
there must have been some cleft or opening by
which the animal was admitted while in embryo,
or while in a very young state; no one, as far as
we are aware, believing that the sperm or young
animal may have been enclosed when the rock was
in the process of formation at the bottom of shallow
waters. Whatever may be the true theory regard-
ing animals so enclosed, their history is certainly
one of the highest interest; and without attempt-
ing to solve the problem, we present our readers
with an instance taken from the Mining Journal of
January 18, 1845 :- A few days since, as a
miner, named W. Ellis~ was working in the Peny-
darran Mine Works, at forty-five feet depth, he
struck his mandril into a piece of shale, and to the
surprise of the workmen, a frog leaped out of the
cleft. When first observed, it appeared very
weak, and, though of large size, could crawl only
with difficulty. On closer examination, several
peculiarities were observed ; its eyes were full-
sized, though it could not see, and does not now
see, as, upon touching the eye, it evinces no feel-
ing. There is a line indicating where the mouth
would have been, had it not been confined; but
the mouth has never been opened. Several de-
formities were also observable ; and the spine,
which has been forced to develop itself in angular
form, appears a sufficient proof of its having grown
in very confined space, even if the hollow in the
piece of shale, by corresponding to the shape of
the back, did not place time matter beyond a
reasonable doubt. The frog continues to increase
in size and weight, though no food can be given to
it; and its vitality is preserved only by breathing
through the thin skin covering the lower jaw. Mr.
W. Ellis, with a view of giving his prize as much
publicity as possible, has deposited it at the New
Inn, Merthyr, where it is exhibited as the
greatest wonder in the worlda frog found in a
stone forty-five feet from the surface of the earth,
where it has been living without food for the last
5000 years !Chambers.MR. JUSTICE STORY.
tThe sketch of the juridical and personal charac-
ter of Judge Story which we have copied from the
Boston Daily Advertiser, was written by his pupil
and intimate friend, Mr. Charles Sumner, of the
Boston Bar.]
TIlE FUNERAL OF MR. JUSTICE STORY.
I HAVE just returned from the last sad ceremony
of the interment of this great and good man. Un-
der that roof, where I have so often seen him in
health, buoyant with life, exuberant in kindness,
happy in his family and friends, I gazed upon his
mortal remains, sunk to eternal rest, and hung
over those features, to which my regards had been
turned so fondly, from which even the icy touch
of death had not effaced all the living beauty.
The eye was quenched, and the glow of life was
extinguished; but the noble brow seemed still to
shelter, as under a marble dome, the spirit that
had fled. And is he, indeed, dead, I asked my-
self ;he whose face was never turned to me
except in kindness, who has filled the world with
his glory, who has drawn to his country the hom-
age of foreign nations, who was of activity and
labor that knew no rest, who was connected by
dnties of such various kinds, by official ties, by
sympathy, friendship and love, with so many cir-
cles, who, according to the beautiful expression
of Wilberforce, tonched life at so many points
has he, indeed, passed away Upon the small
plate on the coffin was inscribed, Joseph Story,
died Sept. 10th, 1845, aged 66 years. These
few words might apply to the lowly citizen, as to
the illustrious judge. Thus is the coffin-plate a
register of the equality of man, when he has laid
aside the brief distinctions of life.
At the house of the deceased we joined in reli-
gio us worship. The Rev. Dr. Walker, the pres-
ent head of the University, in earnest prayer,
commended the soul of the departed to God who
gave it, and invoked a consecration of their afflic-
tive bereavement to his family and friends. From
the house we followed the body, in mournful pro-
cession, to the resting-place, which he had selected
for himself and his family, amidst the beautiful
groves of Mount Auburn. As the procession
filed into the cemetery I was touched by the sight
of the numerous pupils of the Law School, with
countenances of sorrow, ranged with uncovered
heads on each side of the road within the gate,
testifying by this silent and unexpected homage
their last respects to what is mortal in their de-
parted teacher. Around the grave, as he was
laid in the embrace of the mother-earth, was gath-
ered all in our community that is most distin-
guished in law, in learning, in literature, in station,
the judges of onr courts, the professors of the
University, surviving class-mates of the deceased,
and a thick cluster of friends. He was placed
among the children, who had been taken from him
early in life, whose faces he is now beholding in
heaven. Of such is the kingdom of heaven
are the words which he has inscribed over their
names on the simple marble which now commemo-
rates alike the children and their father. Nor is
there a child in heaven, of a more child-like inno-
cence and purity, than he, who, full of years and
worldly honors, has gone to mingle with these
children. Of such, indeed, is the Kingdom of
Heaven.
There is another sentence inscribed by him on
this family stone, which speaks to us now with a
voice of consolation. Sorrow not as those with-
out hope are the words which brought a solace
to him in his bereavement. From his bed beneath
he seems to whisper them among his mourning
family and friends; most especially to her, the
chosen partner of his life, from whom so much of
human comfort is apparently removed. He is
indeed gone; but we shall see him once more for-
ever. In this blessed confidence, we may find
happiness in dwelling on his virtues and fame on
earth, till the great consoler Time shall come with
healing on his wings.
From the grave of the judge, 1 walked a few
short steps to that of his classmate and friend, the
beloved Channing, who died less than three years
ago, aged 63. Thus these companions in early
studies, each in after life foremost in the high and
important duties which he had assumed, pursuing
divergent paths, yet always drawn towards each
other by thc attractions of mutual friendship, again
meet, and lie down together in the same sweet
earth, in the shadow of kindred trees, through
which the same birds shall sing their perpetual
requiem.
The afternoon was of unusual brilliancy, and
the fnll-orbed sun gilded with mellow light the
fnneral stones through which I wound my way,
as I sought the grave of another friend of nty own,
the first associate of the departed Judge in the
duties of the Law School, Professor Ashmun.
After a life crowded with usefulness, he laid down
the burthen of ill health which he had long borne,
at the early age of 33. 1 remember listening to
the flowing discourse which Mr. Justice Story
pronounced over the remains of his associate in
the college chapel in 1833; nor can I forget his
deep emotion, as we stood together at the foot of
the grave, while the earth fell, dust to dust, upon
the coffin of his friend.
Wandering through this silent city of the dead,
I called to mind those words of Beaumont on the
tombs in Westminster:
Here s an acre sown indeed,
With the richest, royallst seed
That the earth did eer suck in,
Since the first man died froni sin.
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruined sides of kings.
The royalt.y of Mount Auburn is of the soul. The
kings that sluniber there were anointed by a
higher than earthly hand.
Returning again to the grave of the departed
judge, I found no one there hut the humble labor-
ers, who were then smoothing the sod over the
fresh earth. It was late in the afternoon; and the
upper branches of the stately trees, that wave over
the sacred spot, after glowing for a while with the
golden rays of the setting sun, were left in the
same gloom which had already settled on the grass
beneath. I hurried away, and as I reached the
gate, the porters curfew was tolling, to forgetful
mnsers, like myself, the knell of parting day.
As I left this consecrated spot, I thought of the
pilgrims that would come from afar, through long
successions of generations, to look upon the last
home of the great jurist. From all parts of our
own country, from all the lands where law is
taught as a science, and where justice prevails,
they shall come to seek the grave of their master.
Let us guard, then, this precious dust. Let us be
happy that, though his works and his example be-
long to the world, his sacred remains are placed
4950
in our peculiar care. Be to us, also, who saw
him face to face in the performance of all his vari-
ouS duties, and who sustain a loss so irreparable
in our own circle, the melancholy pleasure of
dwelling with household affection upon his tran-
scendent excellences.
His death makes a chasm which I shrink from
contemplating. He was the senior judge of the
highest court of the country, an active professor
of law, and a Fellow in the Corporation of Har-
vard University. He was in himself a whole
triumvirate ; and these three distinguished posts,
now vacant, will be filled, in all probability, each
by a distinct successor. It is, however, as the
exalted jurist, that he is to take his place in the
history of the world, high in the same firmament
from whence heam the mild glories of Tribonian,
of Cajncius, of Hale and of Mansfield. It was his
fortune, unlike many of those who have cultivated
the law with signal success on the European con-
tinent, to be called upon as a judge practically to
administer and apply it in the actual business of
life. It thus became to him not merely a science,
whose depths and intricacies he explored in his
closet, but a great and god-like instrument, to be
employed in that highest of earthly functions,
the determination of justice among men. While
the duties of the magistrate were thus illumined
by the studies of the jurist, the latter were tem-
pered to a finer edge by the experience of the
bench.
In attempting any fitting estimate of his character
as a jurist, he should be regarded in three different
aspects, as a judge, an author, and a teacher of
jurisprudence, exercising in each of these charac-
ters a peculiar influence. His lot is rare who
achieves fame in a single department of human
action; rarer still is his who becomes foremost in
many. The first impression is one of astonish-
ment that a single mind, in a single life, should
he able to accomplish so much. Independent of
the incalculable labors, of which there is no trace,
except in the knowledge, happiness and justice
which they helped to secure, the bare amount of
his written and printed labors is enormous beyond
all precedent in the annals of the common law.
His written judgments on his own circuit, arid his
various commentaries, occupy twenty-seven vol-
umes, while his judgments in the Supreme Court
of the United States form an important part of no
less than thirty-four volumes more. The vast
juridical labors of Coke and of Eldon, which seem
to clothe the walls of our libraries, must yield
in extent to his. He is the Lope de Vega, or the
Walter Scott of the common law.
We are struck next by the universality of his
juridical attainments. It was said by Dryden of
one of the greatest lawyers in English history,
Heneage Finch,
Our law that did a boundless ocean seem
Were coasted all and fathomed all by him.
But the boundless ocean of that age was a mare
clausum compared with that on which the adven-
turer embarks in our day. We read in Howells
Familiar Letters, that it had been said only a few
short years before the period of Finch, that the
books of the common law might all be carried in
a wheelbarrow! To coast such an ocean were a
less task than a moiety of his labors whom we
now mourn. Called upon to administer all the
different branches of law, which are kept separate
in England, he showed a perfect mastery of all.
MR. JUSTICE STORY.
His was universal empire; and wherever he set
his foot, in the wide and various realms of juris-
prudence, it was as a sovereign ; whether in the
ancient and subtle learning of real law, in the
criminal law, in the niceties of special pleading,
in the more refined doctrines of contracts, in the
more rational systems of the commercial and mari-
time law, in the peculiar and interesting principles
and practice of courts of Admiralty and Prize, in
the immense range of Chancery, in the modern
but most important. jurisdiction over patents, or in
that most exalted region, the great themes of Pnh-
lic and Constitutional Law. There are judgments
by him in each of these branches which will not
yield in value to those of any other judge, in
England or the United States, even though his
studies and duties may have been directed to emily
one particular department.
His judgments are remarkable for their exhaust-
ive treatment of the subjects to which they relate.
The common law, as is known to his cost by every
student, is to be found only in innumerable sand-
grains of authorities. Not one of these is over-
looked in these learned judgments, while all are
combined with care, and the golden cord of reason
is woven across the ample tissue. Besides, there
is in them a clearness which flings over the sub-
ject a perfect day, a severe logic, which, by its
closeness and precision, makes us feel the truth of
the saying of Leibnitz, that nothing approached
so near the certainty of geometry, as the reason-
ing of the law; a careful attention to the discus-
sions at the bar, that the court may not appear to
neglect any of the considerations urged; and a
copious and persuasive eloquence which gilds the
whole. Many of his judgments will be land-marks
in the law; they will be columns, like those of
Hercules, which shall mark the progress in juris-
prudence of our age. I know ~f no single jud~e,
who has established so many. I think it may be
said, without fear of question,. that the Reports
show a larger num~r of judicial opinions from
Mr. Justice Story, which posterity will not wil-
lingly let die than from any other judge in the
history of English and American law.
But there is much of his character as a judge,
which cannot be preserved,, except in the faithful
memories and records of those, whose happiness
it was to enjoy his judicial presence. I refer par-
ticularly to his mode of conducting business. Even
the passing stranger bears witness to his suavity
of manner on the bench, while all the practitioners
in the courts, over which he presided so long,
attest the marvellous quickness with which he
habitually seized the points of a case, often antici-
pating the slower movements of the counsel, and
leaping, or I might almost say, flying to the con-
clusions sought to be established, Napoleons
perception in military tactics was not more rapid.
All will attest the scrupulous care with vhich he
assigned reasons fur every portion of his opinions,
showing that it was not he, who spoke with the
voice of authority, but the law, whose organ he
was. And all will reverence the conscientious
devotion and self-sacrifice which he brought to the
performance of his responsible duties.
In the history of the Enulish bench, there are
but two names with combined eminence as a judge
and as an author; Coke and hale; unless, indeed,
the Orders in Chancery from time Verulamian pen
should entitle Lord Bacon to this distinction, and
the judgments of Lord Brougham should vindicate
the same for him. I3lackstones character as aMR. JUSTICE STORY.
judge is lost in the fame of the Commentaries.
To Mr. Justice Story belongs this double glory.
Early in life he compiled an important professional
work; hut it was only at a comparatively recent
period, after his mind had been disciplined by the
labors of the bench, that he prepared those elabo-
rate commentaries, which have made his name a
familiar word in foreign countries. Those, who
knew him best, observed the lively interest which
he took in this extension of his well-earned re-
nown; and well he micrht for the voice of distant
foreign nations seems to come as from a living
posterity. his works have been reviewed with
praise in the journals of England, Scotland, Ire-
land, France and Germany. They have been cited
as authorities in all the courts of Westminster
Hall ; and one of the ablest and most learned law-
yers of the age, whose honorable career at the
bar has conducted him to the peerage, Lord Camp-
bell, in the course of debate in the house of lords,
characterized their author as the first of living
writers on the law.
To complete this hasty survey of his character
as a jurist, I should allude to his excellences as a
teacher of law, that other relation which he sus-
tained to jurisprudence. The numerous pupils,
reared at his feet, and now scattered throughout
the whole country, diffusing each in his circle the
light which he obtained at Cambridge, as they
hear that their great master has fallen, will feel
that they individually have lost a friend. He had
the faculty, which is rare as it is exquisite, of
interesting the young, and winning their affections.
I have often seen him surrounded by a group, the
ancient Romans would have aptly called it a coro-
na of youths, all intent upon his earnest conversa-
tion, and freely interrogating him on any matters
of doubt. In his lectures, and other forms of
instruction, he was prodigal of explanation and
illustration; his manner, according to the classical
image of Zeno, was like the open palm; never like
the closed hand. His learning is always overflow-
ing as from the horn of abundance. He was ear-
nest and unrelaxing in his efforts, patient and
gentle, while he listened with inspiring attention
to all that the pupil said. Like Chaucers Clerk,
And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly tcche.
Above all, he was a living example of a love for
the lawsupposed by many to be unlovable and
repulsivewhich seemed to burn brighter under
the snows of advancing years; and such an exam-
ple could not fail to touch with magnetic power
the hearts of the young. Nor should I forget the
lofty standard of professional morals which he
inculcated, filling his discourse with the charm of
goodness. IJuder such auspices, and those of his
learned associate, Professor Greenleaf, large class-
es of students of law, larger than any in England
or America, have been annually gathered in Cam-
bridge. The Law School is the golden mistletoe
ingrafted on the ancient oak of the University;
Talis erat species auri frondentis opaca
Ilice.
The deceased was proud of his character as a
professor. In his earlier works he is called on the
title-page, Dane Professor of Law. It was
only on the suggestion of the English publisher,
that he was prevailed upon to append the other
title, Justice of the Supreme Court of the United
States. He looked forward with peculiar delight
to the time, which seemed at hand, when he should
lay down the honors and cares of the bench, and
devote himself singly to the duties of his chair.
I have merely glanced at his character in his
three differ~ut relation to jurisprudence. Great in
each of these, it is on this unprecedented combina-
tion that his i~eculiar fame will he reared, as upon
an immortal tripod. In what I have written, I do
not think that I am biased by the partialities of
l)rivate friendship. I have endeavored to regard
him, as posterity will regard him, as all must
regard him now, who know him only in his vari-
ous works Imagine for one moment the irrep-
arable loss, if all that he has done were blotted
out forever. When I think of the incalculable
facilities which are afforded by his labors, I cannot
but say with Racine, when speaking of Descartes;
Nous courons; mais, sans lui, nous ne marcherions
pas. Besides, it is he who has inspired in many
foreign bosoms, reluctant to perceive aught that is
good in our country, a sincere hotnage to the
American name. He has turned the stream of
the law refluent upon the ancient fountains of
Westminster Hall, and stranger still, he has forced
the waters above their sources, up the unaccus-
tomed heights of countries, alien to the common
law. It is he, also, who has directed, from the
copious well-springs of the Roman law, and from
the fresher fountains of the modern Continental
law, a pure and grateful stream to enrich and fer-
tilize our domestic jurisprudence. In his judg-
ments, in his books, and in his teachings, on all
occasions, he sought to illustrate the doctrines of
the common law by the lights of kindred systems.
The mind naturally seeks to compare him with
other great jurists, servants of Themis, who
share with him the wide spaces of fame. In
genius for the law, in the exceeding usefulness
of his career, in the blended character of judge
and author, he cannot yield to our great Master
Lord Coke; in suavity of manner and in silver-
tongued eloquence he may compare with Lord
Mansfield, while in depth, accuracy and variety
of judicial learning he surpassed him far; if he
yields to Lord Stowell in elegance of diction, he
excels even his excellence in the curious explora-
tion of the foundations of that jurisdiction which
they administered in common and in the develop-
ment of those great principles of IJublic law,
whose just determination helps to preserve the
peace of nations; and even in the peculiar field
illustrated by the long career of Eldon, we find
him a familiar worker, with Eldons profusion of
learning, and with out the perplexities of his
doubts. There are many who regard the judicial
character of the late Chief Justice Marshal as at
an unapproachable height. I revere his name and
have ever read his judgments, which seem like
pure reason, with admiration and gratitude
but I cannot disguise that even these noble memo-
rials must yield in high judicial character, in
learning, in acuteness, in the variety of topics
which they concern, in fervor, as they are far in-
ferior in amount, to those of our friend. There
is still spared to us a renowned judge, at this nmo-
ment the unquestioned living head of American
jurisprudence, with no rival near the throne,
whose character is as pure as his fame is exalted,
Mr. Chancellor Kent, whose judgments and
whose works always inspired the warmest eulo-
gies of the departed, and whose fame as a jurist
furnishes the fittest parallel to his own in the an-
nals of our law.
It were idle, perhaps, to weave further these
51MR. JUSTICE STORY.
vain comparisons, particularly to invoke the liv-
ing. But busy fancy recalls the past, and per-
sons and scenes renew themselves in my memory.
I call to mind the recent chancellor of England,
the model of a clear, grave and conscientious
judge, Lord CottenhamI call to mind the orna-
ments of Westminster Hall, both on the bench
and at the bar, where sit.s Denman, in manner, in
conduct and character every inch the judge;
where pleaded only a few short months ago the
consummate lawyer Follet, whose voice is now
hushed in the gravetheir judgments, their argu-
ments I cannot forget; but Story was a greater
judge than Denman, a more consummate lawyer
than Follet, a master of more various learning
than Cottenham.
It has been my fortune to see or to know the
chief jurists of our times, in the classical coun-
tries of jurisprudence, France and Germany. I
remember well the pointed and effective manner
and style of Dupin in the delivery of one of his
masterly opinions in the highest court of France;
I recall the pleasant converse of Pardessus, to
whom commercial and maritime law is under a
larger debt, perhaps, than to any other mind,
while he descanted on his favorite theme. I wan-
der in fancy to the gentle presence of him with
flowing silver locks, who was so dear to Ger-
many, Thibaut, the expounder of the Roman law,
and the earnest and successful advocate of a just
scheme for the reduction of the unwritten law to
the certainty of a written text. From Heidel-
berg I fly to Berlin, where I listen to the grave
lecture, and mingle in the social circle of Savigny,
so stately in person and peculiar in countenance,
whom all the continent of Europe delights to
honor; but my heart and my judgment, untravel-
led, fondly turn with new love and admiration to
my Cambridge teacher and friend. Jurisprudence
has many arrows in her golden quiver, but where
is one to compare with that which is now spent in
the earth!
The fame of the jurist is enhanced by the vari-
ous attainments which were superinduced upon
his learning in the law. His Miscellaneous
Writings show a thoughtful mind, imbued with
elegant literature, glowing with kindly senti-
ments, commanding a style of rich and varied
eloquence. There are many passages from these
which have become the common-places of our
schools. In early life he yielded to the fascina-
tions of the poetic muse; and here the great law-
yer may find companionship with Selden, who is
introduced by Suckling into his Session of Poets, as
close by the chair, with Blackstone, whose
Farewell to the Muse shows his fondness for poetic
pastures, even while his eye ~vas directed to
the heights of the law, and also with Mansfield,
of whom Pope has lamented in familiar words,
How sweet an Ovid was in Murray lost !
I have now before me, in his own hand-writing,
some verses which were written in 1833, entitled
Advice to a Young Lawyer. As they can-
not fail to be read with interest, I introduce them
here.
Wheneer you speak, remember every cause
Stands not on eloquence, but stands on laws
Pregnant in matter, in expression brief,
Let every sentence stand with bold relief;
On trifling points nor time nor talents waste,
A sad offence to learning and to taste;
Nor deal with pompous phrase; nor eer suppose
Poetic flights belong to reasoning prose.
Loose declamation may deceive the crowd,
And seem more striking, as it grows more loud;
But sober sense rejects it with disdain,
As nought but empty noise, and weak, as vain.
The froth of words, the schoolboys vain parade
Of books and casesall his stock in trade
The pert conceits, the cunning tricks and play
Of low attorneys, strung in long array,
The unseemly jest, the petulant reply,
That chatters on, and cares not how or why,
Studious avoidunworthy themes to scan
They sink the speaker, and disgrace the man.
Like the false lights, by flying shadows cast,
Scarce seen when present, and forgot, when past.
Begin with dignity; expound with grace
Each ground of reasoning in its time and place;
Let order reign throughouteach topic touch,
Nor urge its power too little, or too much,
Give each strong thought its most attractive
view,
In diction clear, and yet severely true.
And, as the arguments in splendor grow,
Let each reflect its light on all below.
When to the close arrived, make no delays
By petty flourishes, or verbal plays,
But sum the whole in one deep solemn strain,
Like a strong current hastening to the main.
But the jurist, rich with the spoils of time, the
exalted magistrate, the orator, the writer, all van-
ish when I think of the friend. Much as the
world may admire his memory, all who knew him
shall love it more. Who can forget his bounding
step, his contagious laugh, his exhilarating voice,
his beaming smile, his countenance that shone
like a benediction What pen can describe these
what artist can preserve them on canvass or in
marble l He was always the friend of the young,
who never tired in listening to his flowing and
mellifluous discourse. Nor did they ever leave
his presence without feeling a warmer glow of
virtue, a more ins~)iring love of knowledge and
truth, more generous impulses of action. I first
knew him while I was in college, and remember
freshly, as if the words were of yesterday, the
eloquence and animation, with which, at that
time, in a youthful circle, he enforced the beauti-
ful truth, that no man stands in the way of an-
other. The world was wide enough for all, he
said, and no success, which may crown our neigh-
bor, can affect our own career. It was in this
spirit that he run his own race on earth, without
jealousy, without envy; nay more, overflowint~
with appreciation and praise of labors which com-
pare humbly with his own. In conversation, he
dwelt with warmth upon all the topics which
interest man; not only upon law, but upon litera-
ture, upon history, upon the characters of men,
upon the affairs of every day; above all, upon the
great duties of life, the relations of men to each
other, to their country, to God. High in his
mind, above all human opinions and practices,
were the everlasting rules of Rig/ic; nor did he
ever rise to a truer eloquence than when con-
demning, as I have inure than once heard him re-
cently, that evil sentiment Our country, be she
right or wrong which, in whatsoever form of
language it may disguise itself, assails the very
foundations of justice and virtue.
He has been happy in his life; happy also in
52MAMMOTH CAVE.
his death. It was his hope, expressed in health,
that he should not be allowed to linger superflu-
ous on the stage, nor waste under the slow pro-
gress of disease. He was always ready to meet
his God. His wishes were answered. Two
days before his last illness he delivered in court a
masterly judgment on a complicated case in
equity. Since his death, another judgment, in
a case that had been argued before him, has been
found among his papers ready to he pronounced.
I saw him for a moment only on the evening
preceding his illness. It was an accidental meet-
ing away from his o~vn housethe last time that
the open air of heaven fanned his cheeks. His
words of familiar, household greeting, on that oc-
casion, still linger in my ears, like an enchanted
melody. The morning sun saw him on the bed
from which he never rose again. Thus closed,
after an illness of eight days, in the bosom of his
family, without pain, surrounded by friends, a
life, which, through various vicissitudes of dis-
ease, had been spared beyond the grand climac-
teric, that cape of storms in the sea of human ex-
istence;
Multis ille bonis flebilis occidit,
Nulli flebilior quam mihi.
He is gone, and we shall see him no more on
earth, except in his works, and in the memory of
his virtues. The scales of justice, which he had
held so long, have fallen from his hands. The
untiring pen of the author rests at last. The
voice of the teacher is mote. The fountain, which
was ever flowing and ever full, is now stopped.
The lips, on which the bees of Hybla might have
rested, have ceased to distil the honeyed sweets of
kindness. The body, warm with all the affec-
tions of life, with love for family, and friends, for
truth and virtue, is now cold in death. The jus-
tice of nations is eclipsed ; the life of the law is
suspended. But let us listen to the words, which,
though dead, he utters from the grave: Sorrow
not as those without hope. The righteous judge,
the wise teacher, the faithful friend, the loving
father, has ascended to his Judge, his Teacher,
his Friend, his Father in Heaven. C. S.
From the Louisville Journal.
MAMMOTH CAVE.
nv GEORGE D. PRENTICE.
ALL day, as day is reckoned on the earth,
I ye wandered in these dim and awful aisles,
Shut from the blue and breezy dome of heaven,
While thoughts, wild, drear, and shadowy, have
swept
Across my awe-struck soul, like spectres oer
The wizards magic glass, or thunder clouds
Oer the blue waters of the deep. And now
I 11 sit me down upon you broken rock,
To muse upon the strange and solemn things
Of this mysterious realm.
All day my steps
Have been amid the beautiful, the wild,
The gloomy, the terrific. Crystal founts,
Almost invisible in their serene
And pure transparencyhigh, pillard domes
With stars and flowers all fretted like the halls
Of Oriental monarchsrivers dark
And drear and voiceless as oblivions stream,
That flows through Deaths dim vale of silence
All fathomless, down which the loosened rock
Plunges until its far-off echoes come
Fainter and fainter like the dying roll
Of thunders in the distanceStygian pools
Whose agitated waves give back a sound
Hollow and dismal, like the sullen roar
In the volcanos depthsthese, these have left
Their spell upon me, and their memories
Have passed into my spirit, and are now
Blent with my being till they seem a part
Of my own immortality.
Gods hand,
At the creation, hollowed out this vast
Domain of darkness, where nor herb nor flower
Eer sprang amid the sands, nor dews nor raiiis
Nor blessed sunbeams fell with freshening power,
Nor gentle breeze its Eden-message told
Amid the dreadful gloom. Six thousand years
Swept oer the earth crc human foot-prints marked
This subterranean desert. Centuries
Like shadows came and passed, and not a sound
Was in this realm, save when at intervals,
In the long lapse of ages, some huge mass
Of overhanging rock fell thundering down.
Its echoes sounding through these corridors
A moment, and then dying in a hush
Of silence such as brooded oer the earth
When earth was chaos. The great mastodon,
The dreaded monster of tile elder world,
Passed oer this mighty cavern, and his tread
Bent the old forest oaks like fragile reeds,
And made earth tremble.Armies in their pride
Perchance have met above it in the shock
Of war, with shout and groan and clarion blast,
And the hoarse echoes of the thtinder gun;
The storm, the whirlwind and the hurricane
Have roared above it, and the bursting cloud
Sent down its red and crashing thunder-bolt;
Earthquakes have tramliled oer it in their wrath,
Rocking earths surface as the storm-wind rocks
The old Atlantic ;yet no sound of these
Eer came down to the everlasting depths
Of these dark solitudes.
How oft we gaze
With awe or admiration on the new
And unfamiliar, but pass coldly by
The lovelier and the mightier! Wonderful
Is this lone world of darkness and of gloom,
But far more wonderful yon outer world
Lit by the glorious sun. These arches swell
Sublime in lone and dim magnificence.
But how sublimer Gods blue canopy
Beleaguered with his burning cherubim
Keeping their watch eternal ! Beautiful
Are all the thousand snow-white gems that lie
In these mysterious chambers gleaming out
Amid the melancholy gloomand wild
These rocky hills and cliffs, and gulfsbut far
More beautiful and wild the things that greet
The wanderer in our world of lightthe stars
Floating on high like islands of the blest
The antumn sunsets glowing like the gate
Of far-off Paradisethe gorgeous clouds
On which the glories of the earth and sky
Meet and commingleearths unnumbered flowers
All turning up their gentle eyes to heaven
The birds, with bright wings glancing in the sun,
Filling the air with rainbow miniatures
The green old forests surging in the gale
The everlasting mountains on whose peaks
The setting sun burns like an altar-flame
And ocean, like a pure heart rendering back
Heavens perfect image, or in his wild wrath
Heaving and tossing like the stormy breast
Of a chained giant in his agony.
53 54 RAILWAYS AND THE ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH.
From the Times.
RAILWAYS AND THE ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH.
WE may see by what the railway has done, what
may be done, what must be done, and what undoubt-
edly will be done. With little more risk to the two
or three individuals employed than what is now
daily incurred by thousands of women on their way
to market, and with [10 greater expense than a few
bushels of coke, and the wear and tear of a few
iron rods and bars, England has now, in all human
probability, been twice traversed almost from
north to south within eighteen hours, two or
three of which were spent in the metropolis.
Consider what this implies. From the southern
coast to Edinburgh and back is become the easy
work of twenty-four hours. From the Lands-
end to John OGroats house is brought within the
same compass. The whole of this island is now,
to all intents and purposes, as near the metropo-
lis as Sussex or Buckingbamshire were two cen-
turies ago. The midland counties are a mere
suburb. With the space and resources of an em-
pire we enjoy the compactness of a city. Our
roads are contracted into streets, our hills and
dales into municipal parks, and our thousand
leagues of coast into the brief circumference of a
castle wall. Nineveh, it is said, was three days
journey across. Great Britain is one in its long-
est dimension. For questions of distance we are
as mere a spot as Malta or St. helena, as one of
the Channel Islands, or as any one of those minute
though famous insular states in the ancient
tEgean. One peaceful circumvalhation includes
the huiidred cities of the island. A hundred op-
posite ports are blended into one Pirteus, and to
every point of the compass diverge the often-tra-
versed long walls, that unite them with our un-
girded acropolis.
But even these distances, slight as they are, are
already about to be annihilated in one chief respect
for the communication of intelligence. The
electric telegraph in a few years will bring, as it
were, the whole population under one roof, and
into one room. The metropolis will instantane-
ously transmit and receive information from every
important point in the island. For every great
need or emergency, the very farthest point will
soon communicate its tidings or its wants, and
will receive immediate reply, announcing the
certain arrival of the assistance or commodity re-
quired within twenty-four hours. The island will
thus become one nervous system, with a scarcely
less quick and infallible action than the human
frame. Our metropolis will be the sensorium of
one acutely sensitive and intelligent fabric.
The most northern or western part will communi-
cate its sensations as immediately as the finger
or the eye transmits its noiseless tidings to the
brain. A pulsation, a glance, quick as lightning,
quick as thought, passes from Caithuess to the
Admiralty, and thence to Penzance. From Dover
to Holyhead takes less time than the writing
these two words. Termini a thousand miles apart,
with a hundred intermediate stations, may, if it be
found necessary, receive all in one moment of
time the official announcement of orders. The
head will transmit its intentions to the remotest
members as quickly as it receives their intelli-
gence. The tables or the walls of a l)arlor in
Downing Street will be the retina of an empire.
On a few dials xvill appear the continual reflex of
a nations history.
Compare the two discoveries, and contemplate
their joint operation. The contingency of ~var
affords the easiest though the least probable as well
as the least agreeable mode of illustration. Our
neighbors still talk of invasion. Their dream of
flotillas has passed into a dream of war steamers.
An army at Cherbourg is to receive orders at
sunset on what part of our southern coast it is to
land at sunrise. Be it so, kind neighbor. We
will not deny you the harmless gratification which
has given eternal celebrity to one at least of your
royal names. But mark what followsnot what
follows, but what occurs simultaneously in every
port and city of this charmed isle. No sooner
are fifty funnels seen in the offing than every
soldier and citizen in the kingdom is waked froni
his bed with the news of their number and desti-
iiation. Before the first boat has touched the beach,
if it does nut already find the shore bristling with
bayonets, one current of strong indignation has
set in to that devoted point from every quarter,
north and south, east and west. By no6n, what-
ever progress the landing or march may then
have made, every soldier whom it may be con-
sidered proper to spare from all England south
of the Trent, will be stationed between the enemy
and the metropolis. The yeomanry and the mili-
tia will be wherever it may be wished to dispose
them. Twelve hours will be sufficient to bring
the whole military force of England within sight
of the.foe, and another six will add all Scotland.
The next sunrise will, if it be thought fit, see the
end of the campaign as far from the shore as fifty
thotisand men are likely to have proceeded. fh
whole steam fleet of the Briiish empire will be
present at their redmbarkation.
The vision is marvellous, but not irrational.
We see no flaw in the calculation. Portsmouth
or Falmouth can communicate with Manchester
or Newcastle in ten seconds, and it will do so
when the poles are up and the wires hung. Man-
chester can send tenthousand men to the southern
coast within twelve hoursat least it will be able
when the rails are laid down. Woolwich can
send thither, within that time, a thousand ton of
material. An army can traverse the southern
coast from Kent to Cornwall in one night. There
is no impossibility or improbability, or considera-
ble difficulty in the way. What becomes then,
of the menaced invasion l
MAGNITUDE OF RAILWAY SPECULATIONS.
On a moderate estimate, the railways already in
existence and to be executed may be taken
to cost 150,000,000
The gross profit on that cap-
ital, at 8 per cent., would be 12,000,000
From which a deduction of 35
per cent. for expenses (the
lowest expenditure of any
large company) would a-
mount to 4,200,000
Leaving the net profit of . 7,800,000,or not
quite St per cent. upon the capital.
In other words, to afford the shareholders in all
our completed and projected railways a return of
rather less than St per cent. upon their outlay, the
public must annually expend 12,000,0001. in rail-
way travelling alone.
The word million comes glibly from the
tongue, but conveys no tangible image to the MAGNITUDE OF RAILWAY SPECULATIONS. 55
mind. An effort is required to realize to the
imagination the magnitude of the sum which
must be annually spent on railway travelling to
yield our speculators a moderate profit on their
capital. Let any one attempt distinctly and ar-
ticulately to count aloud from one to a million: he
will find it hard work to enunciate on the average
one thousand numbers in the hour, and would con-
sequently require a hundred days for ten hours a
day to count the million. The mechanical opera-
tion of telling over a million of sovereigns piece
by piece would occupy a full month, at the rate
of 3,600 an hour for ten hours a day. The joint
earnings of 1,830 agricultural laborers with their
7s. a week for thirty years each, not a working-
day left out, would be less than a million of
pounds sterling. The joint earnings of 640 me-
chanics at 20s. a week, toiling each as uninter-
mittingly during the same period, would not
amount to a million of pounds sterling. The pay
of 90 British geiieral officers at 11. a day, would
not in thirty years amount to a million of pounds
sterling. So much of toil, and danger, and expo-
sure to the elementsso much of patient, perse-
vering, and more or less skilful industryso
much of valor, and accomplishment, and high
spirit, as represented by moneymay be bought
for a million of pounds sterling.
And our railway-projectors and speculators cal-
culate upon drawing twelve of these millions an-
nually from the pockets of the public. In other
words, they expect that twelve millions of people
half the population of the Three Kingdoms,
men, women, and children(at lid, per mile)
will each travel 160 miles by railway every year,
and pay them 20s. a head. Or they expect that
one million people will travel 1,920 miles each in
the course of the year, and pay them 121. a head.
Or they expect that one hundred and twenty
thousand people will each travel 16,000 miles by
railway every year, and pay them 1001. per head.
Be it remembered, too, that railway-travelling
constitutes but a fraction of the whole annual
travelling of the nation. Our railways, existent
and in projection, embrace not one half of the
surface and population of Great Britain; and even
in the rail~vay districts there is active competition
from steam-boats, omnibuses, cabs, vans, spring-
carts, & c. & c. The steam-boats of the Thames
and tIme Clyde carry more passengers than the
Greenwich, Blackwall; and Glasgow and Green-
ock Railways. In the great towns, not only the
wealthier classes as a badge of station and for
amenity, but tradesmen for professional purposes,
keep vehicles, which when travelling on business
or for pleasure they from sheer economy generally
employ in preference to other modes of convey-
ance. In the rural districts, landowners and far-
mers do the same. Again, the price of a railway-
ticket is only part of the outlay of the railway-
traveller on conveyances. In most cases it im-
plies the additional expense of short-stage, cab, or
bus, to convey him to and from the railway, or
from one railway to another.
Our sanguine projectors and speculators pay
little heed to these considerations; though the
brokers who are agents in the transfer of shares
often ask each other in wonderment, where all the
travellers are to come from. Put the question to
any dabbler in railway stock, and he replies with
an Oh, with the increase of locomotive facilities
travelling will increase indefinitely. It may be
so: hitherto the theory has held good: yet there
must be some natural limit to the activity of the
principle. Men do not travel for travellings sake,
but on business or for pleasureto earn money,
or to spend it; and what possible facility will set
men in motion where these motives ate wanting.
The enormous amount of money invested in rail-
ways would seem to imply that some classes of
Englishmen are expected to live on railways, as
some classes of Chinese live on their canals. To
render these umidertakings remunerative, a numer-
ous portion of society would need, like the fabled
birds of paradise, to keep always on the wingto
spend their lives darting from town to town with
the velocity of swallows in a summer-evening.
The boldness and extent of these aggregate under-
takings conveys a magnificent idea of the re-
sources and enterprise of Britain; but their very
magnitude lies like a load on the ima, ination,
while the incessant restlessness and swift move-
ments they presuppose in such a numerous class of
the community make the head giddy only to think
of.Spectator, 16 Aug.
Now that the most eventful session of Parliament
recorded in railway history has reached its close, we
are enabled to announce, from our official returns, the
following as the great results of its legislation. Par-
liament has sanctioned the construction of 2 090
miles of new railways in England and Scotland, and
of 560 miles in Ireland. This is in effect to double
the extent of the railways of Great Britain, exclusive
of Ireland. The capital authorized to be raised in
shares for this purpose amounts to 31,680,000l., ex-
clusive of 6,800,0001. required for the Irish lines;
making in all 34,480,0001. The cost of the new rail-
ways per mile will be thus very much less than that
of existing lines. The average of the new is nearly
15,0001. per mile, and that of the old exceeds 30,0001.
per mileRailway Chronicle.
Accoaniren to the Times, it has been estimated that
no less a sum than ten millions sterling must be sent
out of this country in the course of the year, to pay
the calls on foreign railway shares; and speculators
are warned of the effect which that may have upon
the money-market.
To show the extraordinary nature of railway spec-
ulation in Glasgow, we may mention, that on a line
near this city, on which a deposit of 21. lOs. was re-
quired per share, they soon ran up to a premium of
Si. and 101. per share; and on Monday they were
quoted as high as 23l. and 241., but on the day fol
lowing they fell to t7l.; and now they are running
up again, in consequence of what is called time
or bear bargains, ruinous to some, but profitable
enough to others; and this is a feature, we are afraid,
which pervades too many of them. Sober business
is now shoved aside, and speculationspeculation-
railway shares and railway deposit, scrip and premi
um, seem to be the order of the dayScotch Reform-
ers Gazette.
THE tenders for the purchase of the Sycee silver
were opened yesterday, according to the terms of the
notice in which the metal was offered to public com-
petition. The result was, that 400,000 ounces were
awarded to a person who had bid 60 1-16d. per ounce
for that quantity only, while the rest was awarded to
another firm (said to be the Messrs. Eothschild)
who had offered 60d. for the entire quantity. These
prices are extremnely high; being exclusive (accord-
ing to the terms of the contract) of all the gold
above five grains in the pound Troy which may be
found in the silver, and which will have to be paid for
separately at a fixed rate. Times.SCRAPS.
A VERY tempting offer has been made to the
medical profession. A nervous invalid is ad-
vertising for a medical gentleman, of good
edneation, and cheerful manners, to eat and
ride with him, to walk and talk with him, and to
shave and dress him! Terms, fifty pounds a year.
MR. SERGEANT DAVY, eminent in the last cen-
tury, was once upbraided with lowering the
dignity of the profession by accepting silver as
fees from a client. I took silver, he said, be-
cause I could not get gold: hut I took every rap
the fellow had; and if you ~ 11 that lowering the
dignity of the profession, I dont know what the
dignity is.Morning Post.
AusTRIAN RAILRoADsThe opening of the great
line of railroad from Vienna to Prague is definitively
fixed for the 20th of this month, (Aug.) The entire
corps diplontatique have been invited to accompany
the emperor upon the expedition, which is to take
place on the occasion of the solemnity of opening this
new and important line. It will be possible to ac-
complish the whole distance from Vienna to Prague
in one day; but upon this occasion the first days
journey will be ended at Brunn, where the emperor,
with his whole brilliant coridge, will be received by
the Moravian authorities; speeches will be held and
banquets given. The next day the Austrian court
will arrive at Prague, where festivities and various
solemnities will take place for two days. On the 25th
it is proposed that the emperor, with his train of dis-
tinguished guests, should return to Vienna.
A GREAT QuasTtoN SETTLED av AN IF.Several
of the journals have announced the death, in Hol-
land, on the 10th instant, of the person called the
Duc de Normandie, and who pretended to be the
Dauphin son of Louis XVI. M. Ilebert, ex-director
general des postes of the army of Italy, writes on
this subject to some of our Paris contemporaries
IF the Duc de Normandie be the same person that
I saw in Roi~e,in May, 1810, on arrest, and under-
going an tnterrogatory in the cabinet of General
Radet, general of gendarmerie, he was really the son
of Louis XVI. I derive this conviction from that
of General Radet, who interrogated the pretender,
and read the documents of which he was the bearer.
General Radet sent this pretender to Paris. Count
Miollio, governor of Route, was necessarily acquainted
with this arrest, and the trace of it must be found in
his papers, as also in those left by General Radet.
Galignani.
As the Duke of Clarence was once sitting to
Northeote, he asked the artist if he knew the prince
regent.
No, was the brief reply.
Why, said the duke, my brother says he knows
you
Oh, answered Northcote, thats only his braa
Cincinnati, 30 Aug.
A NEW and novel branch of business has recently
been commenced by some of our enterprising build-
ers, the manufacture of portable cottages for the
south and west. I saw three of these cottages on
Fourth street the other day, which were intended for
the Nashville market. They are abont twelve feet
wide by twenty long, and are divided into two apart-
ments. They are constructed chiefly of panel work,
so that they can be taken to pieces for transportation,
and put up again with little trouble. They cost at
the yard of the builder $200. It is said that a saving
of near 50 per cent. can be utade by emigrants gotng
south or west by buying cottages here, instead of
purchasing lumber and building when they arrive at A LIGHT IN THE EAST-A newspaper is about to
their places of destination; and the manufacture of be established in the city of Jerusalem. Solomon,
these cotta0es promises to become an extensive with all his xvi~doin
branch of business in our city. Globe. never dreamt of such a thino-
M. TillERs has taken his departure for Spain;
whither, as his editors have taken care to notify, he
is repairing, in order personally to inspect the
fields of battle he will describe in his next volumes
of the Histoire du Consulat de lEmpire.
THE North Star steam ship arrived at the
Brunswick Wharf, Blackwall, a few days since,
with a cargo and passengers from the port of Leg-
horn. This was understood to be an experimental
trip, being the first voyage ever made by a steam-
vessel to or from that place and the port of Lon-
don. Times.
Sta ROBERT HAS HARD WORKThe problem, how-
ever, is, how Sir Robert Peel gets the tories to assist
him in carrying for the liberals; how he gets them
to follow Itim against all their most stubboru preju-
dices, and many of their most important (fancied)
interests. Leigh Hunts clever description of pigs
under the control of their driver is the aptett repre-
sentation of this curious cross-grained case.
Unwilling was their subjection, but more in
sorrow than in anger. They were too far gone for
rage. Their case was hopeless. They did not see
why they should proceed, but they felt themselves
bound to do so; forced, conglomerated, crowded on-
wards, irresistibly impelled by fate and Jenkins. Of-
ten would they have bolted under any other master.
They squeaked and grunted as in ordinary; they
sidled, they shuffled, they half stopped; they turned
an eye to all the little outlets of escape; but in vain.
There they stuck, (for their very progress was a sort
of sticking,) charmed into the centre of his sphere of
action, lying their heads together, but to no purpose -
looking all as if they were shrugging their shoulders,
and eschewing the tip-end of the whip of office.
Much eye had they to their left leg; shrewd backward
glances; not a little anticipative squeak, and sudden
rush of avoidance. It was a superfluous clutter, and
they felt it; but a pig finds it more difficult than any
other animal to accomtnodate himself to circum-
stances. Being out of his pale, he is in the highest
state of wonderment and inaptitude. He is sluggish,
obstinate, opinionate, not very social; has no destre
of seeing foreign parts. Think of him. in a multitude
forced to travel, and wondering what the devil it
tS
that drives him! judge by this of the talents of his
driver.Ezaminer.
THE FRENCH-iEST TIlING WE HAVE SEEN GOR SOME
TIME.Our spirited contemporary of the Etats Unis.
tells the following Parisian bit of gossip.A couple
very well known in Paris are at present arranging
terms of a separation, to avoid the scandal of a judi-
cial divorce. A friend has been employed by the hus-
band to negotiate the matter. The latest mission was
in reference to a valuable ring given to the husband
by one of the sovereigns of Europe, and which he
wished to retain. For this, he would make a cer-
tain much desired concession. The friend made the
demand. What ! said the indignant wife, do you
venture to charge yourself with such a mission to
me? Can you believe that I could tear myself from
a gift which alone recalls to me the days when my
husband loved rite? No! this ring is my only souve-
nir of happiness forever departed. T is all(and
here she wept)that I now possess of a once fond
husband.
The friend insisted. The lady supplicated, grew
obstinategrew desperatethreatened to submit to
a l)ublic divorce as a lesser evil thait parting with
this cherished ringand at last confessed thatshe
had sold it six months before!
56

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The Living age ... / Volume 7, Issue 74Littell's living ageEvery Saturday; a journal of choice readingEclectic magazineThe Living age co. inc. etc.New York etc.October 11, 18450007074The Living age ... / Volume 7, Issue 7457-104

LITTELLS LIVING AGE.No. 74.il OCTOBER, 1845.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
Correspondence 57
1. Last Days of the Emperor Alexander, Atheneeum 58
2. Miltons Blindness C~4arnbers Journal 67
3. Seldens Table Talk Christian Observer 69
4. Thiers History of Napoleon Taits Magazine 73
5. The Authors Daughter Mary Howilt 89
SCRAPS and PoETitv.Gurneyism; Aviary, 06Lithography; The Stepmother, 87The
Longing; Jews, 88.
COllllE~PONIlEN CE.
THE long-continued drought so far lessened the
water in Charles River, that Messrs. Curtis were
unable to supply us with paper in season, and we
have to apologize to our readers for some tempo-
rary irregularity. The rain which has fallen, is,
we hope, sufficient to prevent a return of the dif-
ficulty.
THE opinion that the death of the Emperor
Alexander was occasioned by poison, has been so
prevalent as to give much interest to the narrative
of his Last Days, which we copy from the Athe-
nnum.
HARPER & BROTHERS go on rapidly with their
Illustrated Bible. It has reached No. 39, and ex-
tends into the Apocrypha. They have also
published The American Shepherd: being a history
of the sheep, with their breeds, management, and
diseases, by L. A. Morrell. This looks very
much as if our American manufacturers would
shortly do with wool, what they have already done
with cotton. No. 11 of the Encyclopcedia of Do-
mestic Economy nearly comj)letes this excellent
book, which contains valuable directions for all
departments. After so much that is solid, a little
recreation may be allowable, and the same house
sends us, The Bosom Friend, a novel. From the
motto, A bosom serpenta domestic evilwe
suppose that the friend is worse than naught.
Wiley 4- Putnams Library of Choice Reading,
No. 25, contains the second part of Hazlitts Table
Talk. Their Library of American Books, Nos.
4,5 and 6, are The Wi~rwam and the Cabin: by
W. Gilmore Sims. Big Abel and Little Manhat-
tan: by Cornelius Mathews. Wanderings of a
Pil~rim under the Shadow of Mont Blanc: by
George B. Cheever, D. D. All these books are
very attractive in their appearance, and promise
much gratification to the reader. We regret that
Lxxiv. LIVING AGE. VOL. vii. 4
we are forced to postpone the gratification of our
own taste.
Ma. LESTERS Medici Series of Italian Prose,
No. 4, is, The Citizen of a Republic, what are his
rights, his duties, and privileges, and what should
be his education. By Ansaldo Ceba, a Genoese
Republican of the 16th Century. Dedicated to
John Quincy Adams.
Hunts Merchants Magazine and Commercial
Revi ought to be read by every young man of
business, and contains abundant materials for the
study of legislators.
Southern Literary Messenger has been sent to
us by Messrs. Redding & Co.
ARTIFICIAL SToNE.At Augsburg, anoth& r
architect, Herr Alois Steiermann, has invented an
artificial stone ; which, for solidity, is said to sur-
pass the best free-stone, is one third its cost, and
to which any form can be given in the manufac-
tore. It is composed of river-sand, clay, and a
cement whose composition is the inventors secret..
It has been submitted to the proof of air, pressure,.
and fire, and resists them all. The King of Ba-
varia has given his gold medal of civil merit to
Herr Steiermann, for this useful invention.
Athen~um.
THE QUEEN, breaking through the rigid etiquette
of an English court, and catching something of the
spirit of the people among whom she found herself,.
has ventured to pay a visit to a mere literary
Professor. This courtesy, the first of the kinds
which Literature, Science or the Arts have receiv-
ed from her Island-Majesty, she paid to Dr. Bis
choff, at Bonn. We fear, however, that literature
must not plume itself on this recognitionfor Dr..
Bisehoff was the director of Prince Alberts studies
during his residence at that University. It is con
solatory to know, that as this visit to a foreign
Professor had a special grace of its own, it wilil
take nothing from the grace of any personal recog
nition that may hereafter occur to her majesty of
such titles at home.Athenceum.LAST DAYS OF THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER.
From the Athenisum.
THE LAST DAYS OF THE EMPEROR ALEX
ANDER.
BY ROBERT LEE, M.D., F.R.S.
ON the 5th of November, 1824, I arrived at
Cologne on my way from London to Odessa, to
join the family of Count Woronzow, in the
capacity of physician to his excellency. The
weather had been very tempestuous during the
whole journey from England, and torrents of rain
had fallen. The Rhine had overflowed its banks
to a greater extent than had ever before been
remembered. From the cathedral arid spire of the
town-house the inundation presented a striking and
melancholy spectacle. The whole level country
was covered with water, and the river with the
wrecks it was floating away. The following day,
many miles before reaching Andernach, the road
was inundated by the Rhine, and it was necessary
to embark in a boat and be towed up the stream
by a number of men on the shore. The rope by
which it was dragged against the rapid current
frequently became entangled among the chimneys
of houses and tops of trees, when suddenly getting
loose, the boat ran great risk of being upset, to the
extreme danger of the passengers. The night had
begun to set in long before this dangerous voyage
was completed, and the river was becoming more
and more rapid, rushing against our boat with
increasing violence. The darkness had increased
so much that every object around us bad become
indistinct, and our situation truly perilous, when
the full moon unexpectedly rising above the moun-
tains of the Rhine, our apprehensions of danger
were removed, and our feelings of anxiety lost,
:m admiration of the ma0nificence of the scenery
around us.
Having reached Coblentz about midnight I
crossed the river with difficulty the following after-
noon to Ehrenbreitstein, from whence my journey
was continued to Francfort without interruption.
I saw from a hill between Limburg and Wiesba-
den, to a distance, as far as the eye could reach,
the Rhine and the Maine, like two arms of the sea
covering the whole of the flat country, and it was
estimated that no less than 50,000 persons were
ruined by this extensive inundation. Passing
through Wurtzbnrg and Nuremberg, I reached
Ratisbon on the 15th of November. The wind
blew and the rain fell without ceasing during the
whole of my journey from Francfort. The
Danube bad risen as much above its ordinary level
as the Rhine, and was rushing with its character-
istic impetuosity, fearfully increased at this time,
through all the fifteen arches of the old bridge of
Ratisbon. It appeared to me surprisiiig that this
structure, which had been built seven hundred
years before, should be able to withstand the force
of such a mighty torrent.
A frightful and disastrous inundation also took
place at this tinie at St. Petersburgh, of which the
following description has been furnished me by my
friend IDr. Gibbs, of Exeter, then residing at St.
Petersburgh
The autumnal equinoctial gales most generally
prevail at St. Petersburgh from the south-west, by
which the waters of the Gulf of Finland and Neva
are much increased. So it xvas in 1824, and for
some weeks the wind continued from nearly the
same quarter. The night of the 18th of Novem-
ber was very stormy, and at daylight of the 19th
it blew a hurricane from W.S.W., by which the
stream of the river, the upper part at least, was
reversed, and the waters, running higher than ever
remembered, soon caused the lower parts of the
city and neighborhood of the enibouchure to be
inundated. At nine oclock in the morning I
attempted to cross the Voskresenskoy bridge of
boats on my xvay to the General Naval Hospital,
on the Wybnrside, but was unable, owing to the
great elevation. I then paid some professional
visits, and at eleven called on Prince Narishkin,
who had already given orders to remove the furni-
ture from his lower apartments, the water then
being above the level of the Fontanka canal oppo-
site to his residence. From this time the rise was
rapid, and at half-past eleven, when I returned to
my house, in the great Millione, the water was
gushing upwards through the gratings of the
sewers, filling the streets and court-yards with
which every house is provided. A servant took
me on his back from the droshky, my horses at
that time being above their knees, and conveyed
me to the landing of the staircase. The wind now
blew in awful gusts, and the noise of the tempest
with the cries of the people in the streets was
terrific. It was not long ere boats were seen in
the streets with vast quantities of fire-wood and
other articles floating about. As there was an
asceiit to my coach-house and stables, the water
there attained but to four feet in depth; in most,
however, it was necessary to get both horses and
cows up to the landing places of the stairs in order
to save them, though the loss of animals was
great. Now and then a horse was seen swiniuiing
across from one pavement to another, the deepest
part of the streets of St. Petersburgh being in the
centre. The number of rats drowned on this
occasion was inconceivable, and of dogs and cats
not a few. The crisis seemed to be from one to
three in the afternoon, at which hour the wind
having veered round a couple of points to the
northward, the waters began to abate, and by four
oclock the tops of the iron posts, three feet in
height, by the side of the pavement made their
appearance. The reflux of the water was tre-
mendous, causing much damage, and carrying off
fire-wood, boards, lumber, and all sorts of rubbish,
with various articles of furniture. Froni the com-
mencement of the inundation the report of the sig-
nal cannon, fired first at the Galleyhaven, at the
entrance of the river, then at the admiralty dock-
yard, and lastly at the fortress, WB5 continued at
intervals as a warning to the inhabitants, and added
not a little to the horror of the scene. At five
oclock, persons were seen on the pavements
carrying lanterns, and the rattling of equipages
was heard an hour afterwards. The depth of
water in the different parts of the city varied from
four to nine and ten feet; but along the border of
the Gulf of Finland, and especially in the low
suburb of the Galleyhaven before alluded to, the
depth was from fourteen to eighteen feet, and
many of the small wooden houses built on piles
were carried a~vay, inmates and all. A few were
floated up the Neva, rocking about with poor
creatures clinging on the roof. Some of these
perished ; others were taken off, at a great risk,
by boats from the admiralty yard, which had been
ordered out by the express command of his im-
perial majesty, who stood during the greatest part
of the day on the balcony of the winter palace,
giving the necessary orders. The government
ironworks, near the shore of the gulf, and two
58LAST DAYS OF TIlE EMPEROR ALEXANDER.
miles distant, Were almost annihilated, and the loss
of life was great. This establishment was after-
wards removed to the left and elevated bank of the
Neva, five versts above the city. Vessels of vari-
ous kinds, boats, timber, & c., floated over the
parapets of the quays on the banks of the Neva
and canals, into the streets and squares, aad were
for the most part afterw rds broken up for fuel.
As the lower part of most houses in St. Peters-
burgh is occupied by shopkeepers and artixans of
various descriptions, so these unfortunate people
sustained much loss, and until their dwellings were
considered to be sufficiently dried by means of
stoves, found refuge and maintenance with their
neighbors in the upper apartments. A German
shoemaker with his family, lived below me, and in
this way became my ~uests for the space of eight
days. The wind continued providentially to get
round to the north during the night of the 19th,
and a smart frost taking place on the following
morning, rendered the roads and streets extremely
slippery, but doing much good by the dryness it
produced. On the 20th, the Emperor Alexander,
ever benevolent and humane, visited those parts
of the city and suburbs most afflicted by this catas-
trophe, and in person bestowed alms and consola-
tion to the sufferers, for the most part of the lower
classes, and in every way afforded such relief, both
then and afterwards, as won for him the still
greater love and admiration of his people and of
the foreign residents in St. Petersburgh. To
assist the emperors benevolent views, a subscrip-
tion was entered into, and the British residents
came forward, as usual, with their wonted liber-
ality. As nothing official was published as to the
actual loss of lives on this melancholy occasion,it
is impossible to state otherwise than by report.
The authorities were shy on this subject; but from
what information I could obtain, twelve or fifteen
hundred persons must have perished. Owing to
the damp and unwholesome state of the lower
parts of the houses and cellars, the mortality
during the subsequent winter was nearly doubled,
from typhus chiefly, as also from affection of the
lungs; and many dated their rheumatic pains and
various other maladies to the sufferings they then
underwent.
The effects of this calamity were still visible
more than a year after, when I visited St. Peters-
burgh, subsequent to the death of the Emperor
Alexander. The red painted lines on the houses
still remained to mark the height to which the
waters had risen. In the inundation of 1752,
the waters of the Neva rose eleven feet, and in
that of 1777, the most extensive and destruc-
tive that had ever before occurred, they rose
fourteen feet above the ordinary level of the
river.
The Danube and the surrounding country were
covered by a dense fog during my journey from
Ratisbon to Vienna, where I arrived on the 21st
of November, 1824, and set out for the Russian
frontier on the 29th. The same evening I reached
Brijun, the capital of Moravia, where I remained
till the 2d of December, the anniversary of the
battle of Austerlitz, which was fought near this
town, nineteen years before. Here I met an Aus-
trian cavalry officer, on his way from Italy to
Gallicia, who was in the battle, and gave a vivid
description of it. He said it commenced between
eight and nine oclock in the morning, and was
nearly over by mid-day, and that in the very short
space of four hours 40,000 men were either killed;
5~)
wounded, or made prisoners. It was the first
battle in which the Emperor Alexander had been
present, and from an eminence near the field lie
saw a great part of his arumy destroyed, and the
remainder retreating in confusion upon Austerlitz,
pursued by the enemy. His troops fought, I was
assured, with the most determined bravery, and
that the victory which the French gained was due
entirely to the transcendant military genius of
Napoleoti. When the Russian and Austrian
columims were descending from the heights which
formed the key of their position, and were march-
ing round the French, to attack their right wing,
and cut off their communication with Vienna, Na-
poleon encouraged the allies to make this false
movemetit, and before it was completed, he drove
his masses of infantry, like a wedge, against their
flank and centre, cut their army into two parts,
and afterwards quickly routed them, as Lord Nel-
son had before done to the French fleet at Trafal-
gar, after breaking their line. Europe felt the
shock of the battle of Austerlitz like that of an
earthquake. Henceforth we may close the map
of Europe for half a century, said Mr. Pitt, on
receiving the fatal tidings. But Alexander,
though defeated, was not wholly vanquished on
this occasion. He persevered, till his allies ceased
to co5perate with him, and the entire subjugation
of his empire was threatened, to discharge the
solemn obligations he had sworn to fulfil during his
nocturnal visit with the King of Prussia, a month
before, to the tomb of Frederick the Great. After
the battle of Friedland, lie was compelled to yield
to the force of circumstances which he could not
control, and it is difficult to believe, that if Alex-
ander had been desirous to conceal from the Eng-
lish government the secret articles of the treaty of
Tilsit that they could have succeeded (by any
bribe, however great) in obtaining so speedily
a perfect knowledge of the means by which Eng-
land was saved. The capture of the Danish
fleet, which followed this discovery, there can
be no doubt inspired the emperor with secret hope
and joy.
I continued my route through Poland by Cracow
and Lemberg to Brody, and there eimtering Russia,
traversed the Ukraine to Odessa, where I arrived
on the 8th of January, 1825. The winter soon set
in with groat severity ; the Black Sea on that
coast was froxen, and the communication with
Constantinople and the Mediterranean entirely cut
off. At the end of January a great quantity of
snow fell and lay, both on the land and sea, till the
commencement of April, when the ice floated
away to the south, and vegetation began to appear
on the steppe. Odessa, which had no existence
half a century before this period, now contained
upwards of 36,000 inhabitatits and carried on an
extensive commerce with Turkey and tb~ coun-
tries in the south of Europe. In tho ~wns of the
town were seen Greeks, Jews . ~ssians, Poles,
Germans, French, Aineri~~a~, and English, in the
costumes of their rcs~ectmve nations. The gover-
nor general, Count Worouzow, was surrounded
with military and civil officers, who had either dis-
tinm~uishmed themselves in the public service or were
eminent for their rank and talents. The dreary
amid monotonous winter months of Scythia passed
quickly and agreeably away in the society of those
who had served in the Persian, Turkish, and
French wars ; and who had witnessed both the
burning of Moscow and the capture of Paris.
Society at Odessa seemed as free and unrestrained 60 LAST DAYS OF THE EMPEROR ALEXANDEg.
as in London, and there was nothing app~ rent to a
stranger from which it could at this time be sus-
pected that a conspiracy existed to destroy the
Emperor Alexander, and subvert the government
of the country.
During the summer I visited Kief, and the
greater part of the country extending between the
Dnieper an(l the Duiester, which was at that time
suffering from the ray ges of locusts. They ap-
peared in the Crimea in 181 , and had continued
in it until 1823that year the crops were com-
pletely devoured by them. From thence they
spread westward as far as Beasarabia, and to the
north upwards of 300 miles from the sea, and in
the autumn of 1824, their eggs had been deposited
in the earth, not only in these fertile Itrovinces,
but throughout the whole tract of country extend-
ing eastward from the Dnieper beyond the Don,
to the Cancassus. I had seen their ova during the
winter dug out of the earth, when they presented
the appearance of clusters of small yellow sacs or
bags. In the month of May the young ones
began to issue from the ground in myriads, at
which time they did not exceed the fifth of an inch
in length, and could only crawl along the surface.
In a few weeks they had greatly enlarged, and
could leap considerable distances, like grasshop-
pers. By the end of June they were able to fly a
short way, and before the end of July they
mounted high into the air and took long flights.
At first they were of a blackish hue, and their
heads were disproportionately large, but after-
wards they became of a clear brown color, with
wings of grey or rosy red. In some places they
covered the ground completely, and were in a
state of rest, but in others they were going slowly
before the breeze, and resembled at a distance a
sheet of gently flowing water. Around Novomi-
gorod, in travelling from Biala Cerkiew, near
Kief, to Odessa, the road was deeply covered with
them, and they rose as our carriages approached,
~vith a peculiar rattling noise, and in such numbers
that they filled the air like flakes of snow in a
storm. They swarmed in the streets of Odessa,
in the vineyards, and on the surrounding steppe, at
the beginning of August, and masses of the (lead
bodies of those drowned in the sea, covered the
shore. There were everywhere two distinct
varieties of these insects, one about three inches,
and the other of half that length. The first kind
was observed to bear a much greater proportion
to the other near the sea, than at a remote
distance. There was a third variety, of a green
color, but it xvas extremely rare, and in some
places wholly ~vanming. In the neighborhood of
Odessa, on the steppe, I observed vast numbers
of a peculiar species of Sphex, or Ichneumon fly,
employed in killing and burying the locusts.
The fly insidiously sprung upon the locust, apply-
ing its long and powerful legs around the body, so
that the victim could not expand its wings and
escape. When exhausted with fruitless efforts to
fly, the sphex applied the strong nippers with
which its mouth is furnished around the neck of
the locust and thrusting the dart with which it is
also provided between the head and body in a few
seconds deprived the locust of life. This dart I
found to consist of two sharp spears, with a small
tube between them, but whether connected or not
with a poisonous sac was not ascertained. The
fly remained for some time attached to the body
of the locust after it was dead, probably for the
purpose of depositing its ova within it. The
sphex afterwards dragged the locust into a small
grave it had previously dug in the ground for its
reception, and covered it carefully with earth.
The ultimate extinction of the locusts here obvi-
ously would be effected by this means, if none
other were provided by nature for the purpose.
The locusts, I was informed some years after, had
entirely disappeared from these extensive steppes.
On the 11th August, 1825, his excellency Count
WoronZoW an(l his suite embarked at Odessa on
board Admiral Greigs yacht, arid sailed for the
Crimea. The Counts F. Pablen, Olizar, Potoski,
and the Baron de Brunow (now Russian minister
in England) were among the number. The fol-
lo~ving eveninu we saw the land near Kosloff.
At two oclock on the mornin~ of Sunday the
16th, we were off Sevastopole. in the midst of the
Black Sea fle t, consistin~ of eight ships of the
line and three large frigates. We went ott board
the admirals ship, and after examining every
part, heard divine service perforumed in the chapel,
where all the sailors who could be spared were
present. After this, a sham fight took place be-
txveen the three frigat s and the yacht. Admiral
Greig then formed his own ship and seven other
of the line into close order of battle, with all their
sails expanded, and many tremendous broadsides
were fired. We afterwards dined with the admi-
ral, vice-admiral, and captains of the fleet. We
parted from Admiral Greig at sunset, and made
all sail for Yoursouff, on the south coast. The
breeze was favorable, but to~ ards morning it grad-
ually died away, the vessel being about ten miles
from the point called Criu Metopon, where the
temple of Diana is supposed to have stood in the
days of Iphigenia. During tIme 17th the weather
was beautiful, there was not a breath of air, and
the sea ~vas like a placid lake. The following
day, when opposite Jalta, the scene suddenly
changed by the occurrence of a violent gale from
the east, which drove the vessel back, and com-
pelled us to take refuge in a bay near Balaclava.
We passed the night at a village called Laspi, be-
longing to General Poitiers, all tIme inhabitants of
which were suffering from fever, and in a wretched
condition. On the 19th, taking Tartar horses, we
rode through the valley of Baidar, and crossed the
Ayla mountains by the passage of Foros, to the
south coast, along which we passed eastward by
Simeis, Alonpka, Musghor, Derekoy, Nikita,
Masandra, and Orianda, to Yoursouff, the seat of
Count Woronzow. There are probably no scenes
in Europe which surpass in magnificence and
beauty those around Aloupka, Masamidra, and
Orianda. If there exists on the earth a spot
which may be described as a terrestrial paradise,
says Dr. Clarke, it is that which intervenes
between Kutchukoy and Sudac, on the south coast
of the Crimea. Protected by encircling Alps
from every cold and bhighting wind, and only open
to those breezes which are wafted across the sea
from the south, the inhabitants enjoy every advan-
tage of climate and situation. From the moun-
tains continual streams of crystal water pour down
upon the gardens, in which many species of fruit
known in the rest of Europe, and many that are
not, attain the highest perfection. Neither un-
wholesome exhalations, nor chilling winds, nor
venomous insects, nor hostile neighbors, infest
their blissful territory.
During the month of Septeniber, 1825, the
whole population of the Crimea between the
mountains and the sea, all the inhabitants of this LAST DAYS OP THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER. 61
terrestrial paradise, were in a very sickly condi-
tion, and in the villages along the coast between
Yoursouff and Simeis, I saw and treated more than
a hundred cases of intermittent and remittent fever.
Many who had been snifering for months had en-
largeinent of the liver and spleen, with jaundice
and dropsy. The weather, during the whole time
I remained on the south coast of the Crimea, was
delightful, and none of those sudden and violent
changes were observed which so frequently occur
in all the countries situated along the northern
shore of the Black Sea. There could be little
doubt that the fever which then prevailed on the
coast and in the interior of the Crimea, was pro-
duced by noxious exhalations from the earth.
After visiting all the most interesting places in
the Crimea, I embarked on hoar(1 Admiral Greigs
yacht at Sevastopole on the 23d September, and
returned to Odessa, with Count F. Pablen, on the
1st of October. Count Worouzow at the same
time set out for Taganrog, to meet the Emperor
Alexander, who had arrived there with the em-
press a short time before, with the intention of
spendin.g the winter on the shores of the sea of
Azoff. Before reaching Odessa, Count Pahlen
was seized with severe shiverino, headache, and
the other characteristic symptoms of bilious re-
mittent fever. The attack was far more violent
and dangerous than in any of the cases which had
before fallen under my observation, and he nar-
rowly escaped with his life. Mr. Rose, an Eng-
lish gentleman, who had been in the Crimea with
us, was also attacked after our return to Odessa,
and died from effusion into the brain. The health
of a considerable number of those who had been
on the south coast of the Crit ca at the same time,
suffered severely for some months after, and in a
few fever appeared in a severe form early the
following spring. There was evidence to prove
hat almost all of us had suffered from malaria.
On the 14th of Octo er, 1525, (OS.) at Odessa,
I received a letter from Count Worouzow at Ta-
ganro g, informing me of the emperors determi-
natton to visit the Crimea, and requesting me to
meet him at Bereslaw, on the Dnieper. I accord-
ingly left Odessa in the afternoon of the same
day, with General Bashmakoff, Messrs. Marini
and Artemieff. We arrived at Nicolaef in the
afternoon of the 15th, and remained a few hours
with Admiral Greig, who had just returned from
Taganrog. It was a clear, beautiful night, the
road was excellent, and we reached Bereslaw the
following morning, at seven oclock, where we re-
mained during the day. This is a large town on
the west bank of the Duieper, which does not dif-
fer in appearance from the other towns in the
south of Russia. There were many shops or ba-
zaars in it, full of every kind of merchandise.
Great numbers of wagons laden with salt from
the Crimea, were then passing through, and large
bodies of troops marching to join the army on the
Turkish frontiers. The country around was ex-
tremely fertile, but the locusts had committed
great havoc the year before, the peasants and
landed proprietors being in a state of the greatest
distress. We left Bere law in the afterno n, for
the isthmus of Perecop, and after passing over an
extensive plain of sand like the Llandes, near the
Pyrenees, we entered the Crimea, and spent the
night at the German colony of Nahitchwan.
Here all was order, cleanliness and comfort, the
population rapidly increasing, and additional grants
of land required. On quitting these intelligent,
happy people, the following morning, we were
not long in coming among the Nogay Tartars,
where all was ignorance, povert.y and wretched-
ness. Light and darkness, civilization and barba-
rism, were here almost in contact. We remained
two nights and a day at Sympheropole, where]
had the satisfaction of giving professional aid to
the daughter of Count Rostopscbin, a name which
will be preserved through all ages in the annals
of Russia.
On the 20th we left Sympheropole early iii the
morning, and passing rapidly over the steppe
extending between the town and the mountains,
crossed these in a cal~che, by the new road
which had lately been made to connect the shore
of the Crime with the interior. Many of the
soldiers employed in completing this arduous ~vork
appeared sickly and depressed. Upwards of a
hundred out of five hundred had suffered from
fever during the autumn, but in none had the
disease assumed a dangerous form. No less than
a thousand soldiers had been employed in this
important work the year before, and comparatively
few of them, it was reported, had suffered from
the effects of fever. The face of the country had
changed since our former visit to the Crimea.
The woods along the Salgir, and on the Chatyr-
Dagh, ~vere stripped of their leaves, though on
entering the valley of Alushta the trees were still
green. From the isthmus of Perecop to Yoursouff
where we arrived on the 20th, preparations were
being made for the reception of the emperor; the
roads were being repaired, and all the cottages
and houses in the line were being cleaned and
whitewashed. The principal Tartar of the village
of Yoursouff had been suffering severely from
intermittent fever for several weeks, but the fits
were speedily arrested by the calomel and sulphate
of quinine which I administered to him. This
latter remedy, which had never before been em-
ployed in the fevers of the Crimea, often stopped
their course so quickly, that some of the ignorant
Tartars were disposed to attribute the striking
effects to supernatural influence.
The following morning we set out for Aloupka.
It was like a summers day in England, the ther-
mometer in the shade being l~o of Reaumur.
The tops of the mountains were, however, covered
with dense clouds. The road along the sea-shore
to Orianda from Yoursouff never appeared to me so
beautiful before, and I could not pass Nikita and
Masandra, without halting to admire the glorious
scenery. The woods had lost a part of their ver-
dure, but there were still many of the trees as
green as during the autumn. The wild vine,
which climbs to the tops of the highest trees, and
the leaves of which were then of a deep red color.
formed a striking feature in the scene. The wal-
nut and fig trees were still fresh and green. At
Aloupka, in the evening, we walked around the
gardens, the most romantic in the Crimea, where
preparations were being made for planting forty
lemon trees in the open air, which had been im-
ported the previous year from Italy, and one of
them, which had been exposed in the middle of
the garden to the intense frost the preceding win-
ter, was in a flourishing state. We returned to
the Tartar house which was prepared for the em-
peror. Boards had been placed around the front
of it, and whitewashed. The walls of the two cham-
bers for his tnajestys accommodation, had been
surrounded with a coarse white linen cloth, and a
very neat bed prepared. There were two chairs, 62 LAST DAYS OF THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER.
a table, and a couch, and newly glazed windows
had been put in. In that climate one could not
have desired a better habitation for a night, though
it was a common Tartar cottage.
We returned to Yoursoufl on the 23d, and on
the following day one of the emperors couriers
arrived, and arranged all the apartments in the
house for his majesty and attendants. On the
25th the emperor arrived at Sympheropole. He
went to the service in the cathedral the follow-
ing morning, and he arrive] at Yoursouff about
four oclock in the afternoon, accompanied by
General Diebitch, Sir James Wylie, and a few
attendants. When he dismounted from his horse
in front of the house at Yoursouff, Count Woron-
zow, his aides-de-carnp, secretaries, and myself,
xvere standing in a line to receive him.
Though apparently active, and in the prime and
vigor of life, the emperor stooped a little in walk-
ing, and seemed rather inclined to corpulency. He
was dressed in a blue military surtout, with epan-
lettes, and had nothinci to distiiiguish him from
any general officer. He shook Count Woronrow
by the hand, and afterwards warmly saluted him,
first on one cheek and then on the other. He
afterwards shook hands with us all, and then in-
quired of me particularly about the health of the
counts children at Baila Cerkiew, whom I had
seen not long before. He then inquired if I had
visited the south coast of the Crimea during the
autumn, and if so, how I was pleased with it.
Looking up to the mountains above Yoursouff, and
then to the calm sea, upon which the sun was
shining, his majesty exclaimed, Was there ever
such magnificent scenery! I replied that the
coast of Italy between Genoa and Nice presented
the only scenery I had ever witnessed that could
be compared to ita part of Italy which his maj-
esty stated he had never visited.
I set out from Yoursonff on the morning of the
26th of October, before the emperor, and rode
along the coast to Aloupka. It was a sultry day,
and the scenery was rendered still more interesting
to me than on all former occasions, in consequence
of the Tartars having come from all parts of the
Crimea to see the emperor, on his way from Your-
souff to Aloupka, where he arrived about four
oclock. I was informed that a Tartar female
complained to his majesty, at Orianda, of her hay-
iiig been beaten and ill treated by the superintend-
ent; when the offender was ordered to appear
before his majesty, he threw himself upon his
knees and implored forgiveness. Alexander or-
dered him to be arrested, and said, with great sever-
ity, that it was an eternal disgrace to injure any
female, more especially one in her situation, she
being pregnant. The emperor was greatly pleased
with Orianda, and immediately determined to pur-
chase the estate from Count Kisseloff, and build a
palace there. Before coming to Aloupka he vis-
ited the vineyards at Martyan, and the Princess
Galitzin and Musghor, distrihuting liberally to the
poor in his way.
Count Woronzow, General Thehitch, Sir James
Wylie and myself, with one or two others, had the
honor of dining with the errtper r on thisoccasion,
the last lie was destined to enjoy. The emperor
addressed himself chiefly to Count Worouzow,
who was seated next to his majesty, and the
greater part of the conversation was carried on in
French and English. Again his majesty recurred
to the beauties of Qrian(la, and thanked the count
for the acquisition he had that day mad for hittt.
He expressed the strong displeasure he felt at the
cruel treatment the poor Tartar woman had re-
ceived from the superintendent, and ordered that
he should be severely punished. The death of
Mr. Fondane, the governor of Kertche, from con-
sumption, had occnrred not long before, and when
this was mentioned the emperor said, he thought
it would be possible to combine the offices of the
governors of Kertche and Theodosia, as the gov-
ernment of Taganrog wa much more extensive
than the two combined. Co nt Woronzow ob-
served, that there would be a difficulty in effecting
this, because a great jealousy existed bet een the
imihahitants of the two towns, which would be
increased by the change. The emperor, on the
contrary, thought it might be the means of recon-
ciling them to each other. The count said that
the people of Theodo ia would never be reconciled
to it: that they would consider themselves placed
in a situation inferior to that of Kertehe, and that,
in his opinion, it was not advisable. The emperor
still urged the practicability of the measure, which
he said he had fully considered, and the count
acquiesced in his majestys decision, by admitting
that no great harm could result from the experi-
ment. The emperor then made many inquiries
respecting the wealth and respectability of the
merchants of Theodosia, to ~vhich such answers
were given as app ared entirely satisfactory.
There were oysters at dinner, and a sniall worm
was adhering to the shell (if one presented to his
majesty. This was shown to Sir James Wylie,
xvho said it was quite common and harmless, and
he reminded the emperor of a circumstance which
had occurred to them at the congress of Verona.
A person at Ycnice had then sent to the emperor
to entreat that he would abstain from the use of
oysters, as there was a poisonous marine worm or
insect in them. This led the conversation to the
insects of the Crimea and the Ukraine, of which
I had made a considerable collection, and the em-
peror inquired of nie if there were scorpions, 5cc-
lopendras and tarantulas in the Crimea. 1 said
scorpions of large size were not uncommon, and
that at Mushor, (lurimig our former visit, we found
a scorpion of great strength in the apartment
where we passed the night, hut that it was harm-
less. Seolopendras of great length I had often
seen around Odessa, but not in the Crimea, nor
tarantulas, although, as I had been informed, they
were not very rare. I heard of no instanee during
the autumn in which they had inflicted any injury
by their bites or stings. He said, he supposed
they were the same as in Italy, and then alluded
to the dance for the cure of the bite of the taran-
tula; Sir James Wylie reminded his majesty (if
the scorpion which was found in his bed at Vero-
na, and of the prescription wheb he had the
written fur the cure of thin bites of the carbonanm.
Then followed a long discussion on hommopa-
thy, and the pe uliar views of Hahuemaun, which
were at tltat time greatly in vogue, not only in
Germany but in Russia. Sir James seemed rather
more favor ble to these views than I considered
justified by the evidence upon which they were
founded He said he be~eved Hahuenmaun, with
his extremely minute doses of medicines, cured a
many patients as regular physicians did by their
great ones, because he at the satne time enjoined
a rig rous diet. C. mint Worouzow inquired if Sir
James would trust to Hahuemanus method o~
treatment in cases of inflammation of the brain oi
wels, or in the fevers of the Crimea. WoulLAST DAYS OF TilE EMPEROR ALEXANDER.
the hundredth or the thousandth part of a grain of
sulphatp of quinine, he asked, stop the fits of one
of these feversl He appealed to me to support
the truth of what he said, and I had no hesitation
in affirming that large doses of quinine often almost
instantaneously arrested these fevers, when small
doses proved ineffectual.
Again, the emperor expressed how much he was
pleased with Orianda, and stated that it was his
determination to have a palace built there as expe-
ditiously as possible. To my amazement he then
amid, after a pause, When I give in my denmis-
5iOfl~ I will return and fix myself at Orianda, and
wear the costume of the Taurida. Not a word was
uttered by any one when this extraordinary res-
olution was announced, and I thought that I must
have misunderstood the emperor, but this could
nint he, for in a short time, when Count Woronzow
proposed that the large open fiat space of ground
to the westward of Orianda should be converted
into pleasure grounds for his majesty, he replied,
I wish this to be purchased for General Diebitch,
as it is right that the chief of my 6tat-major and
I should be neighbors. During dinner there was
also some conversation respecting the chapel which
was about to be built at Masandra, and the em-
peror inquired whether or not it was to be a Greek
chapel. A petition had been presented for a Lu-
theran place of worship to be established at Niti-
ka, and likewise that at Sympheropole the old
Greek church should be converted ijito a Lutheran
chapel, after the cathedral xvas finished. The em-
peror said he was ignorant of the law upon this
point, but that the bishop would inform him wheth-
er it was contrary to law to permit a Greek church,
when not required for the national religion, to be
converted into a Lutheran chapel. If it was not,
it ought to be granted, he said; and I had no doubt
that the emperors visit to the monastery of St.
George on the following day had some reference
to this subject. General Diebitch inquired if there
were many Lutherans in the Crimea, and particu-
larly at Sympheropole, to which Count Woron-
zow replied, that if they had been numerous they
would ere this have had a chapel of their own.
A petition had also been presented by some Roman
Catholics at Karasubazar for a piece t)f ground to
build a Catholic chapel. The emperor expressed
his anxiety that all these petitions should receive
due attention and be granted to the fullest possible
extent. It appeared, from what was stated on this
occasion, that the administration of the empire was
conducted by Alexander on the true principles of
religious toleration.
His majesty made a frugal repast, and drank
little wine. When champagne was presented,
Count Worouzow said, Sire, may we be per-
mitted to drink to the health of her majesty the
empress ~ He replied, Most certainly; and all
iin:nediately risincr did honor to the toast. On
retiring his majesty returned thanks to Count
Worouzow for the excellent entertainment be had
provided, and, addressing himself to us all, said,
with kindness and condescension, Your presence
on this occasion has afforded me the greatest satis-
faction. He then walked out, and mounted the
steps to the flat roof of the house, around which a
number of Tartars were collected. He looked at
the groups through his eye-glass, and said,
What handsome Oriental countenances! what a
fine race of men One of the most striking pecu-
liarities of the Crimea would be lost if the Tartars
were expelled ; I hope they will be encouraged to
63
continue here. An effendi was introduced to
his majesty to present a petition, which he did by
bending down amid raising his bands to his head,
without removing his turban from it.
The emperor retired to rest early in the eveii-
ing. In the middle of the night a courier arrived,
when he arose and transacted business. General
Diebitch, who slept in a house close to that in
which I was, was twice summoned in the night to
wait upon his majesty. I was afterwards in-
formed that the despatches brought by the courier
were of the highest public importance ; in fact,
that they fully revealed to his majesty the ex-
istence of a dangerous and extensive conspiracy,
of which he had not been previously aware.
On the morning of the 27th, after breakfast, the
emperor sent a message to say that he desired me
to accompany him round the lower garden. After
some conversation respecting the illness of the
empress, and the proposal that I should visit her
majesty professionally at Taganrog, he again
called my attention to the magnificence of the
scenery around us, and expressed the pleasure he
had derived from this visit to the Crimea, and the
hope he entertained that at no very remote period
its shores would be full of rich vineyards, and con-
tain many flourishing villages and towns. I
hinted, in the most delicate manner I could, that
the frequent occurrence of violent fevers to those
who visited the Crimea, and to its constant inhabi-
tants, was the only circumstance which appeared
to me likely to prevent his majestys anticipa-
tions being completely realized. He expressed a
strong wish that I should remain in Russia, per-
manently attached to Count Woronzow, the value
of whose public services he appeared justly to
appreciate.
At mid-day the emperor and his attendants were
on horseback, and, after shaking hands with and
taking an affectionate leave of all, he set out for
Sevastopole. In a few days, I returned with
Count Worouzow to Odessa by Perecop, Beres-
law, and Nicolaef, where we remained till the 22d
of November, 1825.
At eight oclock, on Sunday morning, the 22d
of November, Count Woronzow expressed a wish
to see me in his library. On going there, the
count stated that he had received bad news from
Taganrogthat the emperor was dangerously ill.
and that I must set out with him, in two hours, to
render my assistance with the other physicians.
It appeared from a letter of the 7th instant that the
emperor had been attacked with symptoms of
slight catarrh soon after leaving the Crimea, and
that at Oriekoff these had assumed the decided
form of remittent feverthat it had increased in
severity, and that his majesty refused to take any
medicine. Another letter, of the 14th, stated that
he was much worseindeed, in great danger
and that still he refused to submit to any medical
treatment. A third letter, dated Thursday, the
19th, had also been received, from which it ap-
peared that the malady had been daily growing
worse, and that tdmost all hope of his recovery
was past. The count was much afflicted when he
communicated this intelligence, and expressed his
fear that we should find all over before we reached
Taganrog. We started from Odessa at mid-day,
and when our carriage was going slowly over the
deep sands by the sea-shore, the count said that
unpleasant occurrences seldomn came alonethat a.
letter had arrived that morning from London, in-
forming him of an accident that had endamigered 64 LAST DAYS OF THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER.
the life of his father; also, that William Findley,
who had been his fathers coachman for upwards
of thirty years, had been thrown from his box, and
killed on the spot. I knew William Findley
well, he added, bursting into tears, and feel
how much my father must have suffered on the
occasion. We continued our journey to Nico-
laef, where we arrived at midnight. The count
retired to rest for two hours; but I did not, being
anxious to learn from Admiral Greig what conse-
quences would be likely to result, in the event of
the emperors death, and the accession of his bro-
ther Constantine to the throne. We were, of
course, unacquainted with the fact, that in 1822,
the Grand Duke Constantine had voluntarily
waived his title to the succession, and that the
next in the line after him should take his place.
Admiral Greig requested me to write to him imme-
diately after my arrival at Taganrog, which I did,
and communicated all the information I could
obtain respecting his imperial majestys illness and
death.
We reached Cherson at seven oclock in the
morning. There had been a hard frost during the
night. The town was evidently in a state of
decay, and many of the houses were roofless.
During the previous winter, the forage in the
Crimea and country extending along the northern
coast of the Black Sea, was exhausted before the
spring, and the crops having been destroyed by the
locusts and a drought the people had actually been
compelled, in some places, to employ the straw
thatching of their cottages to feed their cattle. I
had previously been informed that the commerce
of the place was ruined; that the rise of Odessa
had, in fact, been the fall of Cherson. The
Dnieper is here as broad as the Danube above
Vienna, or the Rhone near the Mediterranean. At
a short distance from the gate of the town, we saw
an obelisk, which had been erected to the memory
of John Howard, who died of fever, near Cherson,
on the 20th of January, 1790, and was buried in
the open steppe, at a short distance from the town.
It was his request that a sun-dial should be erected
over his grave; and Admiral Greig informed me
that this wish had recently been complied with,
and through the admirals exertions chiefly, as I
learned from others.
We arrived at Bereslaw at two oclock in the
afternoon of the 23d, and crossed the Duieper on a
raft, the floating bridge having been removed. In
the morning of the 24th, we reached Oriekoff,
which is on the high road between Taganrog and
Warsaw, where the Grand Duke Constantine then
was. The postmaster of this place stated that no
account had been received of th.e emperors death;
but he must have wished to conceal the fact, as at
the next post station, we were at once informed
that the news of his decease had been received two
days before.
On Wednesday, the 25th, at seven in the morn-
ing, we arrived at Marienpole, a small town on the
Sea of Azoff, inhabited by Greeks, who had emi-
grated from the Crimea forty years before. We
remained an hour at the residence of a military
officer of rank, who gave me a general account of
the emperors illness. He informed me that
bilious fevers were very common in autumn along
the whole northern coast of the Sea of Azoff.
From Marienpole to Taganrog the country pre-
sented a most dreary aspect, and the post-honses
and horses were truly wretched. We crossed a
small river, and, entering Taganrog at, eight
oclock in the evening, were immediately con-
ducted by the governor of the town to the house
of one of the most respectable merchants. We
learned, on arriving, that his majesty died on the
19th of November, and that he had been insensi-
ble, and deprived of the power of swallowing two
days before his decease.
On Thursday, the 26th of November, I went to
see his imperial majesty lying in state in the house
where he had lived and died. The coffin was
placed upon a slightly-elevated platform, and
covered by a canopy. The room was hung with
black, and the coffin covered with a cloth of gold.
There were numerous large wax lights burning in
the apartment, and each individual present held a
slender lighted wax taper. A priest was standing
at the bead of the coffin reading the Evangelists,
and I was told that this was carried on day and
night. On each side of the body a sentinel was
placed with a drawn sword. In the ante-room
there was a number of priests putting on their
robes, and preparing for the service or mass,
which was celebrated twice every day. There
were no symptoms of melancholy in this crowded
room, and some young military officers even dis-
played a degree of levity altogether unsuitable to
the solemnity of the scene. The empress, I was
informed, remained constantly in an apartment,
the door of which opened into that where the body
of the emperor was lying, and where the service
was performed. Guards were stationed around
the house, at the door, as also on the stairs, and in
the ante-room.
On the evening of Friday, the 27th of Novem-
ber, I proceeded, at the request of Count Woron-
zow, to the residence of Sir James Wylie, for
many years physician to the person of his imperial
majesty, for the purpose of obtaining an account
of the emperors illness, and the treatment which
would have been pursued, had not his majesty
strenuously refused all medical assistance. Sir
James read to me the whole of the reports of his
majestys case, written down by him from day to
day, and which contained the fullest and most
satisfactory explanation of all the attendant cir-
cumstances. These reports were also signed by
the other physicians, who coincided in the views
entertained by Sir James respecting the nature
and proposed treatment of the disease. As these
reports were about to be forwarded to St. Peters-
burgh for the satisfaction of the government, I
could not procure a perfect copy, but the followmn~,
are the most important facts they contained, and
were noted down by me in short-hand as I heard
them. Dr. Reinhold, surgeon to the empress,
who had remained with the emperor during the
night of the 12th of November, came in when Sir
James Wylie was thus occupied, and declared to
me in the most unequivocal manner, that he was
entirely of the same opinion with the other phy-
sicians respecting the nature of the disease, and of
the means that would have been employed.
The weather suddenly changed on the day the
emperor left Aloupka, the 27th of October. A
thick mass of clouds covered the mountains in the
afternoon, the east wind was cold, and a shower
of rain fell. The previous day had been intensely
hot on the coast, and at the time the emperor was
riding from Voursouff to Aloupka. His majesty
was accustomed to travel in an open cal~che with
a light military cloak, trustino solely to the vigor
of his constitution against the sudden changes of
the atmosphere. After quitting Aloupka, he wentLAST DAYS O~ TIlE EMPEItOR ALEXANDER.
to that part of the road where the ascent of the
Merdveen commences, and hesitated for some time
whether to proceed by this difficult pass, over the
mountains, which are between three and four thou-
sand feet high, into the valley of Baidar, or by that
of Foros. After a little delay he decided for the
former, and arrived at Baidar fatigued, perspiring,
and unusually irritable on account of the unruli-
ness of his horse. At Baidar, a caldehe awaited
him, but no refreshment was preparedhis maitre
dh6tel having gone on to Sevastopole. From
Baidar, he proceeded to Balaclava, and reviewed
Colonel Ravilottis regiment of Greek guards.
The emperor again entered his cal~che, and drove
to that part where the road turns off to the monas-
tery of St. George. Here he mounted a horse
and rode to the monastery alone, a distance of at
least ten versts. Sir James had gone forward be-
fore him to Sevastopole, and the emperor did not
arrive there until it was quite dark, having re-
mained upwards of two hours at the monastery,
where was a bishop and several priests. He
entered Sevastopole by torchlight, and before
going to the house prepared, went to the church,
and afterwards reviewed some troops drawn up in
a line along the street through which he passed.
His majesty dined alone, and it was said scarcely
tasted anything. The following day, at twelve
oclock, he examined the barracks, hospital, and
forts at Sevastopole, and then set out for Bache-
serai. On the journey he was observed to be
asleep in the carriage. At Bacheserai, the em-
peror also dined alone, and the following morning
he informed Sir James Wylie, that he had suffered
from an attack of bilious diarrhea in the night,
but that he was then perfectly well. Thus, he
said, will all my complaints pass away without the
help of medicine. Sir James did not state to me
the circumstances which led the emperor to believe
that medical treatment was of no avail in arresting
the progress of disease, and to determine him not
to have recourse to its aid. There could be no
doubt that the emperor had some peculiar views
about the doctrine of predestination, but whether
his skepticism respecting the efficacy of medi-
cine originated in these opinions, I could not
ascertain.
His majesty that day went to Chufut Kali, and
returned in the afternoon to Bacheserai to meet the
Tartar chiefs. Next day he went to Kosloff, and
n arriving there Sir James observed that they had
passed some marshes which emitted a most dis-
agreeable odor. The following night he slept
near Perecop, and on the next between the isth-
mus and Oriekoff. At this place he was observed
by his valet-de-chambre to be ill, but his majesty
did not inform Sir James of the circumstance, and
the latter saw nothing unusual in the appearance
of the emperor the next morning during their visit
to an hospital close by this village. But the valet
afterwards stated that his majesty had been very
ill in the night, and inquired if Sir James did not
observe how pale he was. In the carriage with
General Diebitch on the road to Marienpole, the
emperor was attacked with violent shiverings, and,
on arriving there, had a strong and distinct par-
oxysm of fever. A warm bed was prepared for
him, and he took some hot punch. As the place
they were in was of a wretched description, Sir
James recommended him to push forward to Ta-
ganrog on the following day, and there to take the
proper remedies. They reached Taganrog on the
5th of November, 0. 5. On the two follqwing
days, the emperor suffered severely from derange-
ment of the liver and digestive organs, and experi-
enced severe paroxysms of fever. It was evident
that he was severely attacked with the bilious
remittent fever of the Crimea ; but at this time
there w~s no headache or any other symptom of
the brain being affected. Four grains of calomel
were given, and some purgative medicine, with
great but temporary relief of the febrile symptoms,
yet his majesty would not consent to a repetition
of these remedies, or to the adoption of any other
means. On the 8th, the fever continued with un-
diminished violence, and as the emperor positively
refused to avail himself of the aid of medicine, Sir
James requested that Dr. Stofregen, physician to
the empress, should be called into consultation.
His head had now become burning hot, and a
marked change was perceptible in his majestys
countenance. When Dr. Stofregen was intro-
duced, he said, I am distressed to see your
majesty suffering in this manner. Say nothing
of my indisposition, replied the emperor, but
tell me how the empress is. After being satis-
fied on this point, his majesty told Dr. Stofregen
that Sir James Wylie considered him in a danger-
ous state, but he added, I feel that I am not
seriously ill, and that I shall recover without the
employment of medical aid. It was the opinion
of the physicians, that the emperor should have
been bled at this time, and that calomel and cathar-
tics should have been freely administered; and this
opinion they gave to the emperor in a decided
manner, but he would not consent to the employ-
ment of any remedies. The paroxysms of fever
recurred, but there were occasional remissions
when the pulse came down to the natural state;
once to 71 and repeatedly to 90, but it was at all
times during the progress of the disease extremely
small and feeble.
On the 13th of the month, and tenth day of the
disease, it was again proposed to take blood from
the emperor, but he would not submit. On the
morning of the 14th, Sir James and the other
medical attendants, again urged him to the same
purport, but he refused, even to the application of
leeches to the head. lie rejected this proposal
with the greatest impatience and obstinacy. The
empress on her knees implored him to consent, but
he would not. At first, he said, I had only
an intermittent fever, and now it has been con-
verted into a continued fever, and I will trust
rather to my constitution than to the means recom-
mended. As it was now obvious that his life
was in imminent danger, and that he was becom-
ing worse and worse, Sir James proposed, late in
the evening, that a priest should be brought to
him. Sir James was again desired by the em-
press, to endeavor to convince his majesty that his
life was in the greatest danger, and that as he
would not submit to medical treatment, he should
think seriously, so long as he retained conscious-
ness, of employing spiritual aid. On the morning
of the 15th, at five oclock, he was confessed by
the priest; and he requested that in this religious
act he should be confessed as a simple individual.
When this was finished, the priest strongly urged
his majesty to employ medical aid, saying that,
unless he did so, he would not fulfil the whole of
his Christian duty. Between nine and ten oclock
he consented, for the first time, to the application
of leeches to the temples. The brain had now be-
come affected, and he was occasionally delirious,
and uttered incoherent expressions. For thirty
65 66 GIYRNEYISMAN AVIARY ON A GREAT SCALE.
hours before his death the empress hardly quitted
his bed-side. The scene was most affecting when
the emperor, on the 19th, expired. The empress
had been kneeling by his bed-side, with her eyes
fixed upon him, as he gradually became weaker
and wea.ker, until nil signs of life were gone.
Then, rising, she closed his eyes, and with a
handkerchief bound up his head, to support the
lower jaw. After this, she folded his arms over
his breast, kissed his hand, and then knelt down
by tbe side of the dead body for half an hour in
prayer to God. Throughont the whole of his
majestys illness, she manifested the strongest.
attachment to her husband, and at his death was
inconsolable.
On the post mortem examination of the body
being umade, the appearances observed were such
as are most frequently met with in those dying
from bilious remittent fever, with internal conges-
tion. Two ounces of serous fluid were found in
the ventricles of the brain, and all the veins and
arteries were gorged with blood. There was an
old adhesion between the dura and pia mater at the
back part, but of no great extent. The heart and
lungs were sound, but too vascular. The liver
was turgid with blood, and of a much darker color
than natural. The spleen was enlarged, and
softened in texture.
The prevalence of fever in the Crimea during
the autumn, the sudden change of the weather
when the emperor left the coast, the usual symp-
toms appearing in the course of a few days after
quitting Perecop, as I had before observed in
others, with the subsequent history of the disease
and the appearances after death, rendered it cer-
tain that the Emperor Alexander was cut off by
the bilious remittent fever of the Crimea. During
the six weeks I remained at Taganrog after the
emperors death, I never heard that any one enter-
tained a doubt, or expressed a suspicion that his
majestys death was attributable to any other than
a natural cause. The physicians who had the
care of his majesty were accused by some, without
the slightest ground, of mismanaging the case;
and I heard the question repeatedly put, Why
they did not compel his majesty to submit to their
plan of treatment 1 or, in other words as Sir
James Wylie expressed it, why they did not com-
mit the crime of lise-Majest6 ?a proceeding which
no circumstances could ever justify. I enjoyed the
best opportunities in the Crimea of observing the
devoted attachment of Sir James Wylie to the Em-
peror Alexander, whom he had accompanied in all
his campaigns; and I conscientiously believe, that
on this trying occasion Sir James Wylie dis-
charged his arduous professional duty in a manner
worthy of his high reputation.
GURNEYISM.
Tm-mis termof whose meaning perhaps nine-
teen tweutieths of our readers are utterly ignorant
is applied to a new and particular kind of ma-
nuring, which has been employed with signal suc-
cess by Mr. Gurney, a farmer in East Cornwall.
The operation consists in covering grass land with
long stra~v, coarse hay, or other fibrous matter,
about twenty pounds to the fall; allowing this
covering to lie till the grass spring through it
(which it does with astonishing rapidity) to the
desired length, and then raking it off to allow the
bestial to reach the pasture. The covering is then
applied to another portion of the field; the opera-
tion of removal and covering being repeated so
long as the straw or hay remains sufficiently entire
to admit of convenient application. The merits of
the system, which is yet in its infancy, were thus
stated by Mr. Gurney at a late meeting of the East
Cornwall Experimental Club : About seven
weeks since, he had covered half a field of grass
of three acres in this manner, and about a fortnight
ago, when examined, the increase had been found
to be at the rate of upwards of 5000 lbs. per acre
over the uncovered portion of the field. At that
time the straw was raked off and laid in rows
twelve feet apart on the field, and 115 sheep were
put on the grass, with a view to eat it doxvn as
quickly as possible. After they had been there
about a week, they were succeeded by 26 bullocks,
to eat off the long grass remaining, and which the
sheep had left. The field was thus grazed as bare
as possible. The same straw was now again
thrown over the same portion of the field from
which it had been raked; and on inspection that
morning, he had found the action going on as
powerfully as on the former occasion. He thought
the sheep, on first raking off the straw, were not
so fond of the grass as they were of that un-
covered ; but after twenty-four hours exposure to
the sun and air, he t.hought they rather preferred
it. He had forty acres now under the operation,
and in consequence (if it, lie had had grass when
his neighbors had none. Fibrous covering, or
Gurneyism, as thus described, is certainly a cheap
and convenient mode of manuring ; all that is
wanted is only further experiment to test its gene-
ral applicability. (7hamhers Journal.
AN AvIARY ON A GREAT ScALEIt is a pleas-
ing thing to witness, says a correspondent of the
Zoologist for March, the confidence and familiarity
of the nightingale when protected ; as, for instance,
in the promenade at Gradenfeld, in Prussia, a
beautiful planted piece of ground, extending nearly
a quarter of a mile along both banks of a small
stream. In addition to the penalties denounced by
the Prussian law against those who rob the nests of
the nightingale, a watchman is stationed here dur-
ing the breeding season for additional security.
This may perhaps appear singular in our matter-
of-fact age; but I am confident that no lover of
nature who had resided in Gradenfeld, and enjoyed
the delicious concerts which these birds maintain
both day and night, except from about two to five
oclock,- P. H., would refuse his aid to such a cus-
tom. Many a bird-fancier is at much greater
expense, not to speak of trouble, in keeping a
ghost of a nightingale caged; and why should we
wonder at the inhabitants of Gradenfeld, with their
open-air habits, taking care that their favorite
resort shall never become songless 1 Seated on a
broad-leaved jassamine, the shrub which generally
conceals the nest, the male bird will sing although
you pass within four feet of him, eyeing you as if
perfectly aware that he is a privileged character.
Besides the nightingales, a great variety of other
birds find shelter in this privileged place, and being
never molested, afford the naturalist excellent
opportunities- of observing their habits. Amongst
others, the hoopoes generally build here; the
golden ori~Ie suspends its curious nest from the
highest branches of-the aspen, and breathes out its
cheerful flute-notes- at ev-ening; the Bohemian
wax-wing is a regularand plentiful winter visitant;
whilst a variety of finches and warblers of less-
note complete this real happy family.MILTONS BLINDNESS.
From Chambers Journal.
MILTONS BLINDNESS.
WE do not think that any but a blind man could
have written the Paradise Lost. We mean a
blind man who had once enjoyed sight. Let us
try to substantiate this remark, and to show what
influence Miltons blindness exerted over his poe-
try. That it must have exerted some influence
that Miltons poetry must in some respect be dif-
ferent from what it would have been had he not
been blindcannot be doubted. The slightest
peculiarity about an author tinges his writings;
and it is only because it rarely happens that the
entire character of a persons writings is decided
by any one peculiarity, that we are not more ac-
customed to regard this influence. But blindness
is no ordinary peculiarity. Even if a person who
has been in the habit of writing goes to Arabia,
and comes back again, all that he writes after-
wards will, to a certainty, be affected by that
visit to Arabia. How much more will not a
change come over the spirit of a mans writings
who, after walking for forty-seven years in the
light and blaze of day, passes at once and forever
into an atmosphere of darkness! That Miltons
blindness should not have affected his poetry, that
there should not be a marked difference between
the poems he wrote before he became blind and
those he wrote after, is impossible. The only
question is, whether this effect, this difference,
can be scertained. We think it can. It is no
mere illusive, impalpable peculiarity, of which we
are sensible, without possessing the power to lay
hold of or describe it; it is easily detected. Nay, we
are inclined to put the case so strongly, as to say
that Miltons blindness was a requisite to his writ-
ing Paradise Lost.
When we affirm that Miltons blindness exerted
an influence over his poetry, we do not mean
merely that it enabled him to withdraw his mind
from external objects, and left him at liberty to
pursue his daring theme. That was a decided in-
fluence, no doubt, but it is not the one on which
we lay stress. Neither do we refer to the well-
known passages in which Milton deplores his loss
of sight. The insertion of a few such passages,
if that were all, would not amount to much. Nor,
lastly, do we refer to the influence which Miltons
blindness must have exerted over his verse, in re-
spect of its havin~ obliged him to compose at length
mentally, and then dictate, although this is by no
means an insignificant consideration. We propose
to show that Miltons blindness affected his poetry
in a way more specific and remarkable than any of
these; that Miltons whole manner of conceiving
and describing external objects is that of a blind
man ; and that this manner of conceiving and de-
scribing things was so peculiarly suitable for his
great poem, that it might be made a question
whether Miltons blindness did not actuate his
choice of a subject.
The conception which will be most familiar to
a blind man, will be that of infinitely extended
blackness. The world outside will be to him like
what it would be to a man with the use of his
eyes standing alone on a mountain-top in a very
dark night, and looking upward. Now, a blind
man who has once enjoyed sight will carry with
him into his own black atmosphere a memory full
of images of what he has seen; and when he
tries to describe things by their appearance, it
will be by an effort of recollection. He will
amuse himself by painting, on the dark canvass
stretched before him, those objects which he has
most pleasure in recollectingthe white gable of
his own cottage, the faces of his wife and chil-
dren. The power of love will keep the recollec-
tion of such objects as these bright and vivid,
while all other images are growing dimmer and
dimmer. But there is a certain class of images,
the recollection of which in a state of blindness
would always continue to be easy and pleasura-
ble. It would be difficult for a person who had
been blind for some time to recall the appearance
of such a flower as the violet; whereas he would
retain to the last a remarkably vivid conception
of white or luminous objectsa lamp, the mouth
of a furnace, a streak of light, the sun, the moon,
a ball of glowing iron, the ground covered with
snow, the winter sky studded with stars. In
fact, a man who had grown blind would excel a
person still retaining the use of sight in all that
kind of description which consists in the contrast
of white and black, of light and darkness. Now,
this power of dealing with light and darkness, as
it were in masses, is exactly that which would be
a qualification for writing such a poem as the
Paradise Lost. Three fourths of the description
in that poem are precisely of the kind in which a
blind man would be predminently apt and power-
ful. The beings whose actions form the subject
of the poem are angels, described as moving to
and fin in the universe, surveying creation from
some remote point beyond its limits, or descrying
a silver star in the distance far away, and wing-
ing their flight towards it. This sort of descrip-
tion must be easier to a man to whom space and
blackness are the same thing, than it could possi-
bly be to a man to whom space is colorless, or, at
the most, a sort of faint blue transparency. The
most important descriptions in the Paradise Lost
consist, at bottom, of contrasts of blackness with
light, light in the form of masses, or particles, or
streaks, or discs.
To proceed to instances. It would be quite
possible to prefix to the Paradise Lost a plate or
diagram of the universe as Milton conceived it
mapped out. At first, according to the poet, the
whole infinity of space was divided into two huge
regions or hemispheres, an upper and a lower,
the one all light, the other all darkness. The
upper or illuminated half was heaven, the abode
of the angels, then the only creatures existing.
The under half was chaos or night, a thick,
black, turbulent element, as of universes in a state
of pulp. No beings resided in it. But after the
fall of the angels, space was laid out anew, and
instead of otily two regions, there came to be four.
The bottom of chaos was converted into hell;
and at the top, where chaos pressed against
heaven, a huge cavity was scooped out of the
blackness, into which the light rushed down.
This cavity was mans universe. The principle
of gravitation being imparted to it, all the matter
within the swoop of this right-royal principle left
the pulpy form in which it had hitherto existed,
and coagulated into balls or planets. Then the
Divine impulse came, and the balls spun round
each other, the planets round their suns, and
the moons round their planets. So that, bounded
above by heaven, and beneath by the chaos out of
wbich it had been cut, there existed now a new
azure universe powdered with stars and streaked
with galaxies. It was destined to be the resi-
dence of a new race of creatures. Hell, the resi
67MILTONS BLINDNESS.
dence of the fallen portion of the old race, was
separated from it by chaos.
This is the fundamental conception of the Para-
dise Lost. The infinity of space thus divided,
first into two, and afterwards into four regions, is
the scene in which the action of the poem is
laid. Now, such a gigantic conception could not
have occurred to any except a blind man; or if it
had occurred to any one else, he could not have
sustained it consistently throughout the poem.
But how consistently has Milton sustained it!
Thus, when he describes the ront of the rebel
angels driven before the Messiahs thunder, the
crystal wall of heaven
Rolled inward, and a spacious gap disclosed
Into the wasteful deep; the monstrous sight
Struck them with terror backward; hut far worse
Urged them behind, headlong themselves they
threw
Down from the verge of heaven ; eternal wrath
Burnt after them to the bottomless pit.
it was Miltons blindness that gave him this grand
figure. Reading the passage, one sees chaos, as
it were, an infinite mass of solid blackness, and
the descent of the angels through it like a red
hissing fiery funnel. So in many other passages;
that, for instance, describing the creation of mans
universe; or the following one, describing Sa-
tans glance into chaos, when, standing at the
mouth of hell, he prepares to launch into it in
quest of the new universe
Before their eyes in sudden view appear
The secrets of the hoary deep, a dark
Illimitable ocean, without bound,
Without dimension, where lenoth breath
height, and
And time, and place, are lost, where endless
night
And chaos, ancestors of nature, hold
Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise
Of endless wars, and by confusion stand.
If this passage had not the tone of a narrative, it
might pass for a Lamentation on Blindness.
Making his way through chaos, Satan at last
emerges into the light of the new universe. Di-
recting his flight first to the sun
There lands the fiend; a spot like which, per-
haps,
Astronomer in the suns lucent orb,
Through his glazed optic tube, yet never saw.
This splendid image of Sata~i alighting on the
sun being like a spot dimming its disc, we can
hardly conceive presenting itself to the mind of
any but a blind man; but how readily to his!
The following is the poets description of the
creation of light
Let there be light, God said; and forthwith
light
Ethereal, first of things, quintessence pure
Sprung from the deep; and from her native
east,
To journey through the a~ry gloom begun,
Sphered in a radiant cloud.
In this passage the influence of the poets blind-
ness appears in two ways. In the first place, as
in the former passages, the conception is that of
a blind man. All at first is profound darkness, a
black atmosphere; but forthwith there arises a
vapor-like something in the east, which slowly
creeps westward through the gloom, like a mist
from the sea. This is light. In the second
place, there is a sort of sentimental lingering in
the description, unlike what would be natural in
the case of a poet not afflicted with that calamity,
which made light so dear to Milton, and all the
circumstances of its appearance so delightful to
his memory.
Besides the passages we have selected, fifty or
sixty others might be given. The only sort of
description which five sixths of the poem required,
or would tolerate, is precisely that in which the
power Miltons blindness gave him of contrasting
light and darkness on the great scale, and of con-
ceiving luminous objects, enabled him to excel.
No, doubt, if a man having the use of his eye-
sight had dared to attempt the subject of the Par-
adise Lost, he would, as a matter of necessity,
have been obliged to deal with blackness and
fire, chaoses and galaxies, just as Milton has
done. No doubt, also, there are poets, not blind,
whose imagination is at home in the vast arid
gigantic, who figure to themselves the earth as a
brown little ball wheeling through space, and
whistling as it wheels. Thus Shakspeare speaks
of striking flat the thick rotundity o the world.
Still, none except a blind man could have been so
consistent throughout in that sort of description as
Milton. But not only does he, more than any
other poet, contrast fire and blackness on the
great scale; he employs the same contrast as a
means of representing what it would never have
occurred to any but a blind man to represent in
that way. Thins, when Satan, seized in Paradise
by Ithuriel and Zephon, is brought before Gabriel
and his band of angels, he dares them to battle
While thus lie spake, th angelic squadron
bright
Turned fiery red, sharpened in mooned horns
Their phalanx, and began to hem him round.
Who hut a blind man could have fancied the ap-
pearance of the band of angels hemming Satan in
like that of a crescent moon l But luminousness
with Milton served as a means of describing every-
thing. Satan, starting up when touched by Ithn-
riels spear, as he was sitting in the shape of a
toad at Eves ear, is compared to the explosion of
a powder magazine. Brilliancy is Miltons sy-
nonyme for beauty. The eyes of the serpent are
glowing carbuncles, his neck is verdant burnished
gold. The locks of the unfallen angels are in-
wreathed with beams of light; and their golden
harps hang by their sides glittering like quivers.
But deduct those five sixths of the Paradise
Lost in which the descriptions are all grand and
giganticof spirits warring in heaven, toiling
through chaos, or winging from star to starthere
remains still one sixth of the poem in which, leav-
ing the regions of space, tIme poet condescends on
our dear particular planet, and outpours his imagi-
nation in rich and luscious descriptions of earths
own scenes and landscapes, the fragrant woods,
the blooming gardens, the daisied banks, and
green overarching bowers of Edens Paradise.
How are these passages of rich vegetable de-
scription to be accounted forl Suns and moons
and chaoses were easy: but whence got he the
trees, and shrubs, and flowers ~tliat blind old
man.
If we examine Miltons earlier poemsthoseTABLE-TALK OF EMINENT MEN.
69
which he wrote before he became blindwe shall From the Christian Observer.
find their characteristic to be luscious and flow-
ery description. In this respect we know no one TABLE-TALK OF EMINENT MEN :SELDEN.
so like him as the poet Keats. Take, for in- Muon of information and entertainment is to he
stance, the following exquisite passage from Ly- found in the Table-Talk (as it is called)the
cidas familiar conversationof eminent men, treasured
Return, Sicilian muse, up by those who have held intercourse with them,
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast and posthumously published their choice sayings.
Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. The lively discourse of a powerful mind, quickened
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use by colloquial intercourse, is often more striking
Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, than lucubrations laboriously committed to paper.
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks Brilliant sparkles coruscate; and gold-dust and
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, diamonds are scattered with lavish prodigality; so
that a by-stander is sometimes fain to prefer the
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, racy effervescence of the rapid mental fermentation,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers; to the heavy evaporated potion. Nor are the
Bring the rath primrose, that forsaken dies, thoughts necessarily less solid for being spontane-
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, . ously thrown off; for they m~y have been growing
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, for years, till occasion occurred for using them,
The glowing violet, and the ardor of conversation gave zest to the
The musk rose, and the well-attired woodbine, delivery. In ~vriting, a man often refines and cor-
With cowslips wan, that hang the pensive head, reds, till he debilitates what was redolent of grace
And every flower that sad embroidery wears; and spirit in the conception.
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, It is no wonder, then, that both in early and
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, modern times collections of the remarkable sayings
To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.~ of wise men have bee[t accounted among the most
There is not a passage like this in all the Para- precious records of human wisdom. The ancients
dise Lost. If the poet, after being blind for some have left us some valuable collections of this kind;
time, had attempted to rival it, he could have ac- among which (not to include the ihspired maxims
complished the feat only by the help of a book on of Solomon, who spake three thousand prov-
botany. Here is the passage describing Eves erbs,) the conversational outporings of Socrates,
nuptial bower in Paradise, and we may be sure as noted by Plato and Xenophon, are the most
that on this occasion Milton would lavish his rich- interesting and delightful. rrhe Germans, the
est beauties Italians, and the French, have many repositortes
of this kind; the Jews, and even the Turks, are
The roof not destitute of them; and England is rich in
Of thickest covert was, inwoven shade, them; indeed Boswells Johnson stands at the
Laurel and myrtle, and what higher grew head of the list, ancient or modern.
Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side, The authenticity of many of these collections
Acanthus, and each odorous bushy shrub has been disputed. Sometimes the alleged table-
Fenced up the verdant wall: each beauteous talk does not coincide with the known opinions of
flower, the speaker, as gathered from his life, or as set
Iris all hues, roses, and jessamine, forth in his published works. Thus Plato makes
Reared high their flourished heads between, and Socrates often Platonize rather than Socratize.
wrought Frequently speeches are put into the lips of a great
Mosaic; under foot the violet, and good man, so mean, rash, worthless, or inde-
Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay, cent, that their admirers cannot bring themselves
Broidered the ground, more colored than with to believe they uttered them. In these respects
stone portions of the alleged table-ialk of Lord Bacon
Of costliest emblem. and of Luther lie under suspicion. But it must
be remembered that even wise men do not always
Beautiful still; brave recollections of his old exhibit wisdom and that witty men may be se-
loves, the flowers. But, alas, alas! the recollec- duced to utter striking rather than judicious say-
tions are growing fainter and fewer in the mind ings. Sometimes also the speaker may be jesting,
of the blind old man. Yet as the images of his or expressing himself ironically; and frequently
youth are growing dimmer and (limmer, he is fast he may throw off in the heat of conversation
nearing that life where he shall renew them all opinions or remarks which will not stand the test
again, and where, amid the spheres of which he of his own calm investigation. The admiring
sung, and thrilling to a hi~Jier music than that pupil is perhaps not select in his gatherings and
which his soul loved 50 deoly on earth, his eyes recollections; he embalms much that had better
shall no more shut out the light nor the colors of gone to decay; he accumulates rubbish as well as
the little flowers, rubies; he possibly mistakes, or misstates, the
Miltons earlier poems, we have said, remind words or intention of the speaker; and he injures
us of Keats. No poet is so lush in descrip- the fair fame of the object of his veneration, by
tion, to use his own word, as poor Keats. He recording much that had better been forgotten: in
knew the secrets of the flowers, as if he had been which category we must class whatever is false,
the very bee that buzzed among them, and sipped gross, or profane, however intellectually or imagi-
their sweets. Now, had Keats suddenly grown natively felicitous. And all this may happen
blind, would he not have forgotten the flowers, without any intention to deceive; though some-
and would not his fine soul, then pent up and un- times it is to be feared that the love of making a
windowed, have employed itself building castles good story has led to intentional exaggeration, to
of sunbeams in the darkness within silly fabrication, and to improper would-be wit,TABLE-TALl~ 01? IMINltNT MEN~
for which the person whose name is abused is not
answerable.
After making ample allowances under these
several heads, we do not doubt that most of the
celebrated collections of table-talk may, in the
main, be a genuine transcript; though so mixed
up with fallacy or invention, as not to be tho-
roughly authentic.
We are led to these remarks by glancing over
the table-talk of Selden, published after his death
by his amanuensis, Richard Milward. The learn-
ed Dr. (David) Wilkins, who edited the collected
writings of Selden in 1726, discredited the authen-
ticity of this work, declaring that it contains many
things inconsistent with Sehlens great learning,
his known principles, and his general character.
I3ut Milward dedicated the book to Seldens four
executors, Sir Matthew Hale, Heywood, Vaughan,
and Jewkes, stating that he had been twenty years
in the habit of hearing Seldens conversation, and
that he was sure these relics of the excellent
things that fell from him would be very accepta-
ble to those who so well knew, and so greatly
admired, this glory of the nation ; and as these
eminent lawyers did not repudiate the publication,
it was too late for Dr. Wilkins, seventy years
after Seldens death, to repudiate it. Many of
the remarks are thoroughly Seldenian; and that
some are unworthy of so able and learned a man,
is no proof that he did not utter something of the
kind. Nor are we even surprised that some con-
tradict certain of his written opinions; for, iii the
course of years mens opinions may vary; besides
which, the turn of a conversation may often lead
to an inconsistency more apparent than real as a
whig may seem to toryize when opposing a radi-
cal; or a moderate dissenter to defend the.church
when replying to some outrageous misstatement.
We have a proof that it was not always easy to
discover Seldens real opinion, from what passed
relative to his History of Tithes. This work
was published in 1618. It is usually considered
as denying the divine right ; but Selden does
not enounce that conclusion, though he arranges
his facts and authorities in such a manner as, upon
his premises, to render it inevitable. It does not
even appear that he wished to deprive the Church
of England of this provision ; for though he rejects
the divine right, he learnedly proves and defends
the legal title. The book, however, excited the
displeasure of the clergy and of the court; and he
was accordingly cited before some of the lords of
the high commission to make a public submission,
which he did in the following words. My good
lords, I most humbly acknowledge my error which
I have committed in publishing the history of
Tithes, and especially in that 1 have at all, by
shewing any interpretations of Holy Scriptures, by
meddling with councils, fathers, or canons, or by
what else soever occurs in it, offered any occasion
of argument against any right of maintenance,
Jure Divino, of the ministers of the gospel ; be-
seeching your lordships to receive this ingenuous
and humble acknowledgment, together with the
unfeigned protestation of my grief for that I have
so incurred both his majestys and your lordships
displeasure, conceived against me on behalf of the
Church of England. This was popularly con-
sidered to be a recantation of his opinion ; but it
is not really so ; and next year, in reply to his
opponent, Dr. Tillesley, he said: I did most
humbly acknowled e that I was most sorry for the
publishing of that history, because it had offended;
and his majestys most gracious favor towards me
received that satisfaction of the fault in so untimely
printing it; and I profess still to the world that I
am sorry for it. And so I should have been if 1
had published a most orthodox catechism that had
offended. But what is that to the doctrinal conse-
quences of it, which tIme doctor talks of l Is there
a syllable of it, of less truth, because I was sorry
for the publishing ofitl He (Dr. Tillesley) hopes,
as he says, that my submission bath cleared my
judgment concerning the right of tithes. What
dream made him hope so l There is not a word
of tithes in that submission more than in mention-
ing the title of the book; neither was roy judgment
at all in question, but my publishing it. Several
replies were put forth; but Selden was forbidden
by the king to rejoin. lie says: All that will,
have liberty, and some use it, to write and preach
what they will against me; to abuse my name,
my person, my profession, with as many false-
hoods as they please; and my hands are tied; 1
must not so much as answer their calumnies.
There were several other events in Seldens
career which exposed him to the charge of incon-
sistency; and sometimes the courtiers considered
him on their side, and sometimes the parliament
party on theirs. But we must not digress to a
sketch of his life and character; our only intention
being to give a series of passages from his conver-
sations; which we purpose following up in future
numbers, by similar contributions from the table-
talk of some other remarkable men ; selecting
such observations as may seem appropriate to cur
pageswhether for adoption, consideration, or re-
jection; but not endorsing all that we quote.
A few dates may usefully introduce our cita-
tions from Selden. That erudite and laborious
man was horn in 1581. After passing through
Oxford and the ions of Court, he began to give to
the world the frnits of his learned researches in
law, history, and other studies. The dry titles o~
his many volumes it were tedious to specify. lie
was equally at home in heraldic bearings and
Arundelian marbles; in the origin of duels and of
church courts; in Jewish antiquities and English
constitutional law; in Rabbinical lore, and popish
edicts and provincial decrees; in Hebre~v and its
cognates, and the biography of lord chancellors
and keepers from the days of the Conquest. lie
could turn his hand from defending the right ef
En~laud to the four seas, in his Mare Clausum,
against the Mare Liberum of Grotius, to draw up
the petition of rights, or articles of impeachment
against Archbishop Laud. Lay gentlemen,
says quaint Fuller, prefer his Titles of Honor:
Lawyers, his Mare Clausum ; Antiquaries, his
Spicilegium ad Eadmearum; Clergymen like
best his Dc Diis Syris, and worst his History
of Tithes; but all acknowledge his wonderfol
erudition and fecundity.
Yet could he break from his studies, and mix
busily in the public struggles of those eventful days;
and could then resume them even in a dungeon,
except when denied the use of pens, ink, paper,
and books ; as happened to him when Charles the
First imprisoned him, because in his place in the
House of Commons he had stood up for the rights
of the subject and the privileges of Parliament;
and had assisted to confine the speaker by manual
force in the chair, while resolutions were passed
in spite of his majestys menaces.
Seldens love of letters moderated the barbarous
proceedings of some of his rude colleagues in the
73TAP,LE-TALg OF EMINENT MEN.
days of anarchy. Thns, when Archbishop Lauds
endowment of the professorship of Arabic at Ox-
ford was seized, on the attainder of that prelate,
he procured its restitution. When Archbishop
Ushers library was confiscated, because his grace
had been so graceless as to preach against the in-
fallible Assembly of Divines at Westminster, Sd-
den saved it from sale and dispersion. When
prelacy was abolished, he procnred the transfer of
the Lambeth Library to the University of Cam-
bridge, where it was kept safely till the restora-
tion, and then honestly restored. Many similar
services in those days of dilapidation he ren-
dered to literature; and also to science and an-
tiquities.
He continued writiug almost till his death, his
last work being published when he was nearly
seventy years of age. He died in 1654 but had
he lived six years longer, we sincerely believe
after all he had witnessedthat he would have
cordially concurred in the restoration of monarchy
and episcopacy.
To our citations from this Table-Talk we will
prefix alphabetical headings, for the convenience
of reference. We repeat that citation does not
always imply approval.
Abbeys.Wben the founders of abbeys laid a
curse upon those that should take away those
lands, I would fain know what power they had to
curse me ; it is not the curses that come from the
poor, or from anybody that hurt me, because they
come from them, but because I do something ill
against them that deserves God should curse me
for it. On the other side, it is not a mans bless-
ing me that makes me blessed, he only declares
me to be so; and if I do well, I shall be blessed,
whether any bless me or not.
Articles .T he nine-and-thirty articles are
much another thing in Latin, (in which tongue
they were made) than they are translated into
English they were made at three several convo-
cations., and confirmed by act of parliament six or
seven times after. There is a secret concerning
them of late ministers have subscribed to all of
them, but by act of parliament that confirmed
them, they ought only to subscribe to those articles
which contain matter of faith, and the doctrine of
the sacraments, as appears by the first subscrip-
tions. But Bishop Bancroft, (in the convocation
held in King James day) he began it, that ministers
should subscribe to three things ; to the kings
supremacy, to the Common Prayer, and to the
Thirty-nine Articles many of them do not con-
tain matter of faith. Is it matter of faith how the
church should be governed? whether infants
should be baptized? whether we have any prop-
erty in goods, & e.
BibleThe English translation of the Bible
is the best translation in the world, and renders
the sense of the original best, taking in for the
English translation, the bishops Bible, as well as
King James. The translation in King James
time took an excellent way: that part of the Bible
was given to him who was most excellent in such
a tongue, (as the Apocrypha to Andre~Downs)
and then they met together, and one read the
translation, the rest holding in their hands some
Bible, either of the learned tongues, or French,
Spanisb, Italian, & c.; if they found any fault,
they spoke; if not, he read on.
Henry the Eighth made a law, that all men
might read the Scripture, except servants; but no
women, except ladies and gentlewomen, who
had leisure, and might ask somebody the mean-
ing. The law was repealed in Edward the Sixths
days.
BishopsAnciently, the noblemen lay with-
in the city for safety and security. The bish-
ops houses were by the water side, because
they were held sacred persons which nobody
would hurt.
That which is thought to have done the bish-
ops hurt, is their going about to bring men to a
blind obedience, imposing things upon them,
though perhaps small and well enough, without
preparing them, and insinuating into their reasons
and fancies. Every man loves to know his coin-
mander. I wear those gloves, but, perhaps, if an
alderman should command me, I should think
much to do it: what has he to do with me? Or,
if he has, peradventure I do not know it. This
jumping upon things at first dash will destroy all:
to keep up friendship, there must be little ad-
dresses and applications, whereas bluntness spoils
it quickly : to keep up the hierarchy, there must
be little applications made to men; they must be
brought on little by little : so in the primitive
times, the power was gained, and so it must be
continued. Scaliger said of Erasmus, Si minor
esse vomit, major feisset. So we may say of
the bishops, Si minores esse voluerint, majores
fuissent.
The bishops were too hasty, else, with a dis-
creet slowness, they might have had what they
aimed at : the old story of the fellow, that
told the gentleman he might get to such a place,
if he did not ride too fast, would have fitted their
turn.
Bishops in Parliament .Y on would not have
hishops meddle with temporal affairs; think who
you are that say it. If a Papist, they do in their
church ; if an English Protestant, they do among
you; if a Presbyterian, where you have no bish-
ops, you mean yonr Presbyterian lay elders should
meddle with temporal affairs as well as spiritual:
besides, all jurisdiction is temporal, and in no
church but they have some jurisdiction or other.
The question then will be reduced to magis and
minus; they meddle more in one church than in
another.
Bishops are now unfit to govern because of
their learning; they are bred up in another law,
they run to the text for something done amongst
the Jews that nothing concerns England: it is
just as if a man would have a kettle, and he
would not go to our brazier to have it made as
they make kettles, but he would have it made as
Hiram made his brass-work, who wrought in
Solomons temple.
To take away bishops votes, is but the begin-
ning to take them away ; for then they can be no
longer useful to the king or state. It is but like
the little wimble, to let in the greater auger. Ob-
jection. But, they are but for their life, and that
makes them always go for the king as he will
have them. Answer. This is against a double
charity, for you must always suppose a bad king
and bad bishops.
BooksIt is good to have translations, be-
cause they serve as a comment, so far as the judg-
ment of the man goes.
Quoting of authors is most for matter of
fact; and then I write them as I would produce a
witness, sometimes for a free expression; and then
I give the author his due, and gain myself praise
by reading him. 72 TABLE-TALK OF EMINENT MEN.
To quote a modern Dutchman, where I may
u8e a classic author, is as if I were to justify my
reputation, and I neglect all persons of note and
quality that know me, and bring the testimonial of
the scullion in the kitchen.
CeremonyCeremony keeps up all things; it
is like a penny-glass to a rich spirit, or some ex-
cellent water; without it the water were spilt, the
spirit lost.
6hurck of Rome.Before a jugglers tricks
are discovered, we admire him, and give him
money, but afterwards we care not for them; so
it was before the discovery of the juggling of the
Church of Rome.
Catholics say, we, out of our charity, believe
they of the Church of Rome may he saved; but
they do not believe so of us; therefore, their
church is better, according to ourselves First,
some of them no doubt believe as well of us, as we
do of them, but they must not say so; besides, is
that an argument their church is better than ours,
because it has less charity?
ClergyThough a clergyman have no faults
of his own, yet the faults of the whole tribe shall
be laid upon him, so that he shall be sure not to lack.
The clergy (Laudean) would have us believe
them against our own reason, as the woman
would have had her husband against his own
eyes ; What! will you believe your own eyes
before your own sweet wife?
Confessioeol.Jn time of parliament it used to
he one of the first things the house did to petition
the king that his confessor might be removed, as
fearing either his power with the king, or else,
lest he should reveal to the pope what the house
was in doing, as no doubt he did, when the Catho-
lic cause was concerned.
The difference between us and the Papists is,
we both allow contrition; but the Papists make
confession a part of contrition; they say a man
is not sufficiently contrite till he confess his sins to
a priest.
Why should I think a priest will not reveal
confession? I am sure he will do anything that is
forbidden him, haply not so often as I. The
utmost punishment is deprivation ; and how can it
be proved that ever any man revealed confession
when there is no witness? and no man can be wit-
ness in his own cause. A mere gullery ! There
was a time when it was public in the church, and
that is much against their auricular confession.
Conscience.He that hath a scrupulous con-
science, is like a horse that is not well weighed
he starts at every bird that flies out of the hedge.
Consecrated PlacesAll things are Gods
already; we can give him no right by consecrating
any that he had not before, only we set it apart to
his service just as a gardener brings his lord and
master a basket of apricots, and presents them
his lord thanks him, perhaps gives him something
for his pains; and yet the apricots were as much
his lords before as now.
Yet consecration has this power: when a
man has consecrated anything to God, he cannot
of himself take it away.
DevilsCasting out devils (by the Romish
clergy) is mere juggling; they never cast out any
but what they first cast in: they do it where, for
reverence, no man shall dare to examine it; they
do it in a corner, in a mortice-hole, not in the
market-place; they do nothing but what may be
done by art; they make the devil fly out of the
window, in the likeness of a bat or a rat. Why
do they not hold him? Why, in the likeness of a
bat, or a rat, or some creature? that is, why not
in some shape we paint him in, with claws and
horns? By this trick they gain much, gain upon
men s fancies, and so are reverenced; and cer-
tainly, if the priest deliver me from him that is my
most deadly enemy, I have all the reason in the
world to reverence him. Objection. But if this be
juggling, why do they punish impostures? Answer.
F or great reason; because they do not play their
part well, and for fear others should discover them;
and so all of them ought to be of the same trade.
Equity.Equity in law is the same that the
spirit is in religion, what every one pleases tc
make it; sometimes they go according to con-
science, sometimes according to law, sometimes
according to the rule of court.
Equity is a roguish thing; for law we have a
measureknow what to trust to ; equity is ac-
cording to the conscience of him that is chancellor,
and as that is larger or narrower, so is equity. It
is all one as if they should make the standard for
the measure we call a foot, a chancellors foot;
what an uncertain measure would this he One
chancellor has a long foot, another a short foot, a
third an indifferent foot: it is the same thing in the
chancellors conscience.
That saying, Do as you would be done to,
is often misunderstood; for it is not thus meant
that I, a private~man, should do to you, a private
man, as I would have you do to me, but do as we
have agreed to do one to another by public agree-
ment. If the prisoner should ask the judge,
whether he would be contented to be hanged, were
he in his case, he would answerNo: Then,
says the prisoner, do as you would be done to.
Neither of them must do as private men, but
the judge must do by him as they have publicly
agreedthat is, both judge and prisoner have con-
sented to a law, that if either of them steal, they
shall be hanged.
Heli.1here are two texts for Christs de-
scending into hell: the one, Psalm xvi., the other,
Acts ii., where the Bible that was in use when
the Thirty-nine Articles were made, has it bell.
But the Bible that was in Queen Elizabeths time,
when the articles were confirmed, reads it grave;
and so it continued till the new translation in King
James time, and then it is hell again. But by
this we may gather the Church of England
declined, as much as they could, the descent;
otherwise they never would have altered the Bible.
images. Though the learned Papists pray not
to images, yet it is to be feared the ignorant do;
as appears by that story of St. Nicholas in Spain.
A countryman used to offer daily to St. iNichola&
image: at length by mischance the image was
broken, and a new one made of his own plum-
tree; after that the man forbore. Being com-
plained of to his ordinary, he answeredit is true,
he used to offer to the old image, but to the new
he could not find in his heart, because he knew it
was a piece of his own plum-tree. You see what
opinion this man had of the image; and to this
tended the bowing of their images, the twinkling
of their eyes, the Virgins milk, & c. Had they
only meant representations, a picture would have
done as well as these tricks. It may be with
us in England they do not worship images; be-
cause living amongst Protestants, they are either
laughed out of it, or beaten out of it by shock of
argument.
It is a discreet way concerning pictures in
churches, to set up no new, nor to pull down no
old.THIERS HISTORY OF NAPOLEON.
IN our number for May we made some remarks
upon the first two volumes of M. Thiers new his-
tory. The third and fourth volumes now lie be-
fore us.
We dropped the thread of the narrative at the
beginning of the year 1801, when the negotiations
had been set on foot which were to close in twelve
months with the treaty of Amiens. We are now
carried on for three years further, to the corn-
mencernent of that new war which was about to
be signalized by the bloody days of Austerlitz and
Trafalgar. The events thus embraced in the third
and fourth volumes of the work present hut at few
points the pictures~ue aepect and warlike interest
of those which abounded in the earlier volumes
and, on the other hand, this second period in the
administration of the first consul, comprehending
the gradual results of his novel system of organiza-
tion, offers itself to our eye with less distinctness
of outline than did the facts of the preceding
period, in which we saw the vast structure of
polity rising swiftly out of the chaotic ruins left by
the democratic republic. For the historical stu-
dent now, as for France and Europe at the time,
the general character of this period is that of re-
pose. Yet the quiet was broken by several
mighty paroxysms, which give animation and
variety to its history and instructive truths as
well as adventurous incidents are to be found at
many places of our progress. To Brit.ish readers,
indeed, no point in the fierce career of the modern
Charlemagne is either so important, or so interest-
ing, as that which meets us at the close of the
year 1803. Some years before this, a poet of our
nation, looking abroad with mingled hope and fear
upon the bloodshed and anarchy which distracted
the European continent, celebrated with thankful
reverence that providential destiny, which had
placed us on our island-rock, protected by
position from the worst evils suffered by
neighbors.
Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile,
Oh, Albion! oh, my mother-isle!
Thy valleys, fair as Edens bowers,
Glitter green with sunny showers:
Thy grassy uplands gentle swells
Echo to the bleat of flocks
(Those grassy hills, those glittering dells,
Proudly ramparted with rocks;)
And ocean, mid his uproar wild,
Speaks safety to his ISLAND-CHILD!
Hence, for many a fearless age,
Has social quiet loved thy shore:
Nor ever proud invader~s rage,
Or sacked thy towers, or stained thy fields with
gore!
Just seven years after those lines were written,
England was on the point of being invaded by the
whole host of France; and nothing but a combi-
nation of fortunate occurrences saved the nation
from a struggle, on its own soil, for its freedom
and its very existence.
A series of momentous eveiits pass before us in
the history of the consulate, before we reach this
* History of the Consulate and the Empire of France
under Napoleon; forming a Sequel to the History of
the French Revolution. By M. A. Thiers, late p rime
minister of France, & c. Translated hy D. Forbes Camh-
bell, Esq. London: Colburn. Vols. III. and IV.
LXXIV. LIVING AGE. VOL. VII. 5
From Taits Magazine. anxious crisis. There are first presented the
THIERS HISTORY OF NAPOLEON.* latest acts of hostility which preceded the tempo-
rary peace; acts among which the most important
was the expulsion of the French from Egypt, pur-
chased by the life of the brave Abcrcromby. We
then behold the negotiations terminating in that
general European peace, which was hailed with
such transport in our country as well as in France,
but which jealousies on both sides, and domineer-
ing ambition on one, were destined to render so
short-lived. Napoleon next appears, occupied at
home in the great business of his life, the building
up of the last of those steps by which he mounted
the throne of the Bourbons; or rather, if we would
express the truth exactly, obtaining by degrees the
consent of the French people, to give the name
and trappings of royalty to a power which was
already more thoroughly absolute than that of any
other sovereign in Europe. He redrganizes the
church in France by the concordat and the arrange-
ments consequent on it: he palsies the dangerous
tribunate by a mixture of intrigue and of intimida-
tion: he procures from a vast majority of the
nation a grant to himself for life, and to any per-
son he might appoint to succeed him, of that des-
potic authority which he had already for years
exercised without resistance. Afterwards we see
him engaged in that arbitrary partition of the con-
tinent in which the legitimate sovereigns so eagerly
acquiesced, each one more shamelessly greedy
than another, and each doomed in his turn to dis-
cover that he had been made the tool of a more
dexterous diplomatist than himself. The breach
speedily follows: and we watch the preparation
made on all sides for the war of the third coalition,
so disastrous in its results for all the enemies of
France, so humiliating for all of them except
England. And in the last stage of the history
as it lies before us, the two most prominent sec-
tions are these : the preparations for the in-
vasion of England; and the murder of the Duke
our DEnghien.
our The manner in which the author treats this
diversified series of topics, is such as to justify
fully both the favorable opinions on some points,
and the hesitating anticipations on others, which
we expressed in describin~ his two earlier volumes.
But the fears which we hinted have proved to be
even better founded than we had supposed they
were. Jhe literary merit of the work is well sus~
tamed ; and the interest of the narrative, if not so
engrossing as that which the historian was able to
give to the tragic horrors of the revolution, is
genezally lively, and sometimes exceedingly
powerful. But the moral tone is neither loftier
nor warmer than that which pervaded the His-
tory of the Revolution ; and the deficiency in
historical impartiality is to the full as great as we
were afraid it would be, when we contemplated
the known opinions and the political position of tho
late prime minister of France. His unfairness
towards England is quite as great as it might
have been expected to be in the leader of the
French war party. His partizanship of that which
was evil in the character and policy of the first
consul, is even more thoroughgoing than that
which might naturally have been prompted by
the reverence for Napoleons memory, so strongly
felt at present among the great mass of the French
nation.
The aversion to the perfidious Albion, in-
deed, is consistent with the political system of M..
Thiers, as well as natural to him from national
73THIERS~ HISTORY OF NAPOLEON.
prepossessions; but so much cannot be said for his
desire to palliate all the faults and crimes of the
great man of his history. This desire betrays him
frequently into trains of thought, involving prin-
ciples which it is not easy to reconcile with the
strong advocacy of popular ri~hts supposed to be
undertaken by the party of which he is a chief.
The truth is, that such inconsistency must inevi-
tably he fallen into, by any one who, professing
even the most moderate form of liberal principles
in politics, shall attempt to defend the conduct of
Napoleon, either towards the French nation, or
towards other European states. By a person
holding such principles, the defence ought never to
be undertaken. The rule of Napoleon over France
(however great the genius which conducted its
administrative measures, or however glorious the
military triumphs it gained for the nation) was
really an unlimited despotism the attainment
of an unlimited despotism, exercised directly or
indirectly, was, not perhaps from the first, but
certainly from a very early stage in his extraordi-
nary career, the paramount purpose of all that he
did in relation to foreign states. These points
should always be admitted as the foundation of
reasoning upon his pu lic character: and the only
important question that remains open is this
whether, for those whom he ruled, it was better or
worse that they should for a time be subjected to
such a despotism as his; a question which, in re-
gard to France itself, might not be altogether easy
of solution.
But, to a Frenchman, the admission upon which
such a question is based, must be a very bitter pill,
nauseous to the palate, and indigestible for the
stomach. It is no wonder that the French are
loath to swallow it. Their historians have found
out several ways of saving them from the un-
pleasant necessity. The most usual method is
that which M. Thiers adopts, and ~vhich no one
uses with greater dexterity. His countrymen are
preminded, again and again, that the idol they
worshipped was an idol of their own making, that
the throne he sat upon was one xvbich they had
built for him. It is shown bow, after those scenes
of violence which gave him his first hold of power,
every step he took towards absolute sovereignty
was cordially acquiesced in, or had even been
originally suggested, by the voice of the French
nation, speaking either through its authorized
representatives, or directly by the personal votes
of the citizens. The fact undoubtedly was so:
and it is not the least curious fact in this strange
history, that the last step of Napoleons rise, (ex-
cept the assumption of the imperial title, which
was merely a point of form,) was gained by an
appeal made, in cool violation of the existing con-
stitution, from the, official representatives of the
nation to the nation at large. The French his-
torians never hint at a reflection which suggests
itself instantaneously to observers whose national
vanity is not interested in the argument. Suppose
Napoleons despotism h~d been reared up, from
first to last, by undisguised military violence : sup-
pose he had been placed and supported on the
throne by the army, in opposition or disregard to
the will of the people: might not this have been a
state of things less dishonorable for France, than
that which actually took place l Is it not a
-maller blot on the honor of a nation, to have been
enslaved by force, than to have willingly con-
sented to slavery l Or, to put the case without
any comparison, is not the disgrace which France
suffered, by the absolute loss of its freedom, posi-
tively aggravated by the fact, that its freedom was
not wrested from it, but vohmntarily yielded up l
No such thought occurs to a Bonapartist French-
man. The humiliation of having had a despotic
master is forgotten in the glory of the deeds which
the master taught his servants to perform. The
mass of the nation, looking back on a time when it
was led by Napoleon through a course of conquest
such as Europe bad not witnessed for a thousand
years, is prouder of having served him like a herd
of slaves, than it would have been of co~iperatiug
constitutionally in the wisest government of a
peaceful sovereign. Nay, the pride of havin~ con-
fronted the tempests of the empire is higher now
than it was when those tempests blew. There has
been time to forget the strait pressure of the ~var
taxes, the misery and the bloodshed of the ex-
hausting conscriptions, the degradation of foreign
invasions and of foreign conquests.
In his History, as in the tribune, M. Thiers
pays a willing homage to the Bonapartist spirit.
Down to the point to which his fourth volume
carries us, that is, to the point at which Napoleon
was about to be crowned as emperor, be has no-
where found occasion to discover that his hero had
done any act of which his countrymen had just
reason to complain. Our authors favorite manner
of contemplating great eventshis way of seeming
to look at them as a cool and dispassionate spec-
tator, who declines to speculate either on their
causes or on their moral bearingsenables him to
glide lightly over any spot of his journey, whore
the hollow ground might break through beneath an
incautious tread.
We cannot pause to trace either the political
progress of the first consul in the period before us,
or the particulars of the manner in which the pro-
gress is related. The author sums up his views
for us in the closing paragraphs of the third
volume, when he has just described, with quiet
exactness, the devices by which that skilful
tactician, Cambac6r~s, had first gagged the Tribu-
nate, and afterwards set the senate at nought,
and gained for his master the consulship for life,
with the prerogative of appointing his successor.
Having arrived at the third year of his consul-
ate, he presented himself to the two legislative
assemblies, the bearer of peace both on land and
at sea, peace with Heaven, amnesty to all the pro-
scribed, a splendid code of laws, an effective
scheme of public education, and a glorious system
of social distinctions. Although he presented him-
self with his hands loaded with these gifts, he had,
nevertheless, encountered an unexpected, violent,
and senseless opposition, attributable partly to
worthy, and partly to very unworthy motivesto
the envy of some members, and to the love enter-
tained by others of a liberty at that time altogether
impracticable. Delivered by the wisdom of his
colleague, Cambae6rbs, from this opposition,
which, in his fury, he would have crushed by vio-
lence, he had now at length crowned all his labors,
and had succeeded in procuring the national assent
to the treaties concluded with Europe, to the (Jon-
cordat, his system of lay and national education
an(l to the institution Qf the Legion of Honor;
and had received, as a reward for all these ser-
vices, the chief power for life, and thus attained a
greatness equal to that of the Roman emperors.
At this instant, he resumed the labor of the Codes,
adjusted as arbiter the conflicting interests on the
continent, reformed the constitution of Germany,,
7-4 TRIRRs HISTORY OF NAPOLEON~ 7/5
and distributed the territories to the various princes
with an equity which was acknoiviedged by all
Europe.
Now if, dismissing from the mind everything
which has happened since, we imagine for a mu-
merit this dictator, at that time necessary to the
ountry, continuing as wise as he was great,
tniting those opposin0 attributes, which the Al-
mighty, it is true, has never yet combined in one
mortal, that vigor of genius which constitutes a
great commander, with th~ t patience which is the
distingtrishing feature of the founder of air empire,
tranquillizing, by a long repose, the convulsed
French nation, and prepari g tie people, by slow
degrees,for that liberty which is tire lro~eor e d tie
indispensable zearedze t i modern societies; their,
Jter having rendered Frince so great, appeasing,
instead of irritating the jealousies of the surround-
ing nations, establishing the territorial demarca-
tions, fixed by the treaties of Luodville and
Arniens, upon a settled foundation, as the perma-
nent, immutable b~ us upimn which the balance of
Europe should rest ; at length terminating his
career by an act worthy of the Antonines, by se-
lecting, no matter in wh t quarter, the most wor-
thy successor, in whose hands to place this or-
ganized France, ow pre ared for liberty, and for-
ever aggrandized: what man had ever equalled
thisl But such a man, conibinirig tire military
genius of C~sar, and tire political talents of Au-
gustus, with the noble qualities and sublime vir-
toes of Marcus Aurelius, would have been more
than human; and the rulers assigned to us by
Providence are not divine.
And yet, at this period, he appeared so mod-
erate after having been so victorious, he showed
himself so profound a legislator after having
proved himself so great a commander, he evinced
so much love for the arts of peace after having ex-
celled in the arts of ~var, that well might he excite
illusions in France and in the world. Only some
few amongst the personages who were admitted
to his councils, who were capable of judging of
futurity by the present, were filled with as much
anxiety as admiration, on witnessing the inde-
fatigable activity of his mind and body, the energy
of his xviii, and the impetuosity of his desires.
They trembled even at seeing him do good in the
way he did, so impatient was he to accomplish it
quickly, and upon an immense scale. The saga-
cious Tronchet, who both admired and loved him,
and looked upon him as the savinrur of France,
said, nevertheless, one day, in a tone of deep
feeling, to Cambacdrds, This young man begins
like Cresar; I fear that lie will end like him.
In animadverting on the strong bias shown by
M. Thiers towards Napoleon, and against Eng-
land, we make fell allowance for prepossessions,
from which even the most dispassionate historian
would find it difficult to extricate himself. Neither
in regard to tire Emperor of France, nor in regard
to the nation which was tire emperors most dan-
gerous enemy, do we expect that the writer shall
feel as air Englishman would. When a sore place is
touched, we do not insist that he shall not wince;
when a circumstance is to be related, which flat-
ters the national vanity, we do not expect that he
shall abstain from exultation. We are prepared
to find that the tone of expression throughout the
whole work shall be. stich as to show the exist-
ence of such feelings; and we di) not quarrel with
the feeling, even when it exhibits itself with, a
vividness not quite justified by the facts. In re
gard to military operations, in particular, much
license must be allowed, both to the narration of
occurrences, and to the estimate of results.
When, frrr instance, the historian describes tire
landing of the English army, under Abercromby,
at Alexandria, he may be quietly allowed so to
arrange his narrative, that the admiration of his
readers shall be excited exclusively iii favor of
the French; nor is it worth while to cavil with
him for denying that the battle ~vas lost, since lie
is himself compelled to adnilt that tire victory was
decisive en(ru ~, Ii to ~~rest Egypt out (if the hands
of the French. Nrrr, to take another example, is
it a marter of any consequence that Admiral de
Saum:rrez should be represented, in the naval en-
~agemeiit off Cadiz, in the summer of 1801, as
having cruelly revenged himself, by an inci-
dent, which indeed contributed to his success;
but for which, as the narrative of M. Thiers, in
the saure page, distinctly shows, the admiral was
not, in the slightest degrwe, answerable. In like
mariner, it is natural enough that the account
given of the actions of Napoleon, shall every-,
where be somewhat colored by the writers feel-
ings of pride an(l admiration ; feelings, however,
which, if xve mistake not, are evinced more amid
more openly as the work proceeds. Much, like-
wise, that enters into such an account, is matter
of taste; and an oration, or a diplomatic paper,
which to one man seems n(rble or august, may be
thought by anraher to be a piece of stage-trick, or
of coarse rhodomontade. We are thus inclined to
abstain from all objections to a good deal which
appears to us to give too flattering a view of Na-
poleons conduct, especially in its moral aspect;
(for it is not the wonderful genius of the man,
but his character as a moral agent, that we are
ever inclined to rate low;) and in the same way
we say nothing of some assertions, and many
opinions, which are by no means soothing to our
national prejudices. We will even give one or
two specimens, in which it will be found that
there is a considerable sprinkling of truth, fla-
vored, however, with so much of pique and ani-
mosity, as to disguise the truth from English ap-
prehension, till after a strong effort of reflection.
It is thus that the historian alludes to some of
those causes which led to the rupture of the peace
of A miens; a rupture frrr which, as we admit,
the English ministry was primarily to blame,
although, sooner or later, a breach must have
taken place
Imagine an envious man witnessing the suc-
cess of a dreaded rival; and you will have a tol-
erably correct idea of the sentiments with which
England beheld the prosperity (if France. That
mighty and illuistrious nation had, nevertheless,
in its own greatness, wherewithal to console it-
self for the greatness (if another. But it was a
prey to a singular jealousy. While the successes
of General Bonaparte had been an argument
against the administration of Mr. Pitt, they had
been hailed in England with a sort of applause.
But since . these successes, continuerl and height-
ened, were those of France herself; since she
was seen to grow greater by peace as well as by
xvar, by policy as much as by arurs; since in
eighteen months the Italian Republic had been
seen to become, under the presidency of General
Bonaparte, a French province, Piedmont added to
our territory with the assent of the continent,
Parma and Louisiana increasing our possessions
by the mere execution of treaties, lastly, ~er 76 THfERS7 IHST& RY OF NAFOLE@~
many reconstituted by our sole influence; since
all this had been seen accomplished peaceably,
naturally, as a thing arising fiom a taniversally
accepted situatioL, a imanifest spite had seized all
English hearts; and this spite was no more dis-
sembled than are usually the feelings of a pas-
sionate, proud, and free pceple.
In another plac , where be has to admit that
the first cons.~l had, in his opinion, cot nitted a
mistake in policy, he consoles himself by th re-
Ilection, that England has fallen into the s me
mistake, and is likely enough to fall into it again.
Tie is speaking of the expedition against St. Do-
mingo. That expedition, undertaken for the pur-
pose of preserving, for France, tI e wealthiest of
all the West India Islands, had been baffled by
the geuius and heroism of the negro Toussaint
LOoverture, (a great man, though a barbarian,
whose memory is treated by Thiers with a sig-
nal injustice as his person was by Napoleon,) and
had issued in the mortifying de truc ion of one of
the finest armies that the French ever sent out.
Such was the sacrifice made by the fir t con-
sul to the ancient commercial system f Prance,
a sacrifice for which he has been keenly cen ured.
Still, to judge soundly of the acts of the heads of
governments, we should always take into account
the circumstances under the control of which they
acted. When peace had been made with the
whole world, when the ideas of old commerce
poured in again like a torrent, when, in Paris and
in all the sea-ports, the merchants, the ruined
colonists, loudly demanded the re~stablishmnent of
our commercial prosperity;, when they urged the
recovery of a posses ion which once constituted
the wealih and the pride of the ancient monarchy;
when thousands of officers, seeing with mortifica-
tion their career cut short by peace, offered to
serve in any part of the world where their arms
were needed; was it possible to refo e to the re-
grets of the former and to the activity of the latter
the occasion for restoring the commerce of France?
What has En4and not done to preserve North
America, Spain to preserve South America?
What would not Holland do to preserve Java?
Nations never suffered atiy great possession to
slip out of their hands, without making an effort
to retain it, even though they have no chance of
success. We shall see if the American war has
furnished the English with a lesson, and if they
~vill attenipt to defend Cam da, whenever that
northern colony shall indulge the very natural
l)re(lilection which attracts it towards the United
States.
But these are not the most glaring examples of
the unfair and ungenerous spirit which our author
displays, in speaking of England. We are
weary of fault-fitiding, but canimot avoid pointing
out, hastily, two instances, both of which, we
must say, surprise us not a little.
Let us suppose that M. Thiers were again to be
prime minister of France. If, while he is minis-
ter, the Duke of Bordeaux were to return to Eng-
land, would M. Thiers advise Louis Philippe to
insist that the alien law should be put in force
against him? If the tory newspapers of London
were to libel the king of the French, and to ex-
hort his subjects to restore the Bourbons(and
the most zealous of them have published such
hibels, and such exhortations, hundreds of times,
when his newly-raised throne was tottering on its
base)would M. Thiers address to Sir Robert
Peel a diplomatic note, calling on him to seize
the types and presses of Time Morning P r and
to throw The Age into the Thames? Napolee.
addressed similar demands to the ministry of
George III. and made it a ground of quarrel that
the demands were refused: and M. Thiers not
only thinks the first consuls conduct to have been
justifiable, thou~h a little pettish, (justifiable in
all resl)ects, except his condescending to write
with his o n hand bitter and abusive i adimig arti-
cles for The Manite ,) but actually sto ps to give
an incorrect and incomplete report, both of the re-
ply which the Enohish mnimmistry made to the de-
m:mmmd, amid of time teps which they really tmmok in
consequence of it. We do not defe id all that
Mr. Addin tomi a mmml his colleagnes did in these
matters: in them, as in many others, they were
alike weak amid imprudent; html they did not do
all that they are charged by the French with hay-
in0 dune, and they did some thin0s for which tIm
French hi brian will n t give them credit. We
cannot spare mo for the p rticulars, and content
ourselves with r ferrirmg to time sixteenth mink of
the history.The point aimuly involved in the
case, is the characmer of arm administration, for
which no British reader of ordinary intelligence
entertains any respect. But the case illustrates
aptly, within a narrow compass, the tendency of
M. Thiers to take up and to convey inaccurate
and unfair impre sOuns, on questions in which the
policy of Great Britaimin is cumneerned.
The extent to which his juidgmneuit and feehimmes
are warped by his Angloph bia, is shown ye
more palpably by the next example we shall give.
No one needs to be reminded of that cruel decree,
by which, on the breaking omit of time war in l8O.~,
several thousands of British subjects, travelling or
residin, in France, were arrested without warn-
ing, and detained as prisoners of war, most (If
them till the dethronement of the emperor in 1814.
This procedure is universally recognized, except,
perhaps, in Paris, as having been nina only cruel,
but unjustifiable by the law of nations, amid un-
precedented in the history of civilized Europe.
Even if it had been less clearly unjustifiable, on
diplomnatic principles, yet surely the harshness of
it, and the nuisery it bromught upon so many
innocent persons and families, might have claimed
a word of sympathy. No such word is here ut-
tered : we have nothing but tune of the authors
cool recitals of the acts which were done, and of
the arguments by which the actor justified them
and this recital, too, involves in its close a posi-
tive misstatement; since it was not the fact tha
the arrests were confined to persons in the public
service. We quote the paragraph without far-
ther comment
A circumstance easy enough, it is true, to be
funreseen, served greatly to increase the public in-
dignation. Almost at the moment of the depart-
ure of the two ambassadors, and before any regu-
lar manifestation, news arrived that the ships of
the English royal navy were capturing French
merchautmen. Two frigates had taken in the
bay of Audierne a number of trading vessels,
which were going to seek refuge at Brest. These
first acts were soon followed by many others, hutch-
ligence of which arrived from all the ports. It
was a violence not at all conformable to the law
of nations. There ~vas a formal stipulation on
this subject in the late treaty signed between
America and France, (30th of September, 1800,
Art. 8,) but in the treaty of Amiens, it is true,
,there was nothing of the sort. That treaty eoa TillERS HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 77
tamed rio stip lation for delaying, in case of rup-
ture, the commencement of hostilities against
ommerce. But this delay resulted from the
moral principles of the law f nati ns, placed far
above all written stipulations. The first consul,
all the ardor of whose character was kindled by
this new situati n, determined instantly to use re-
)risals, and drew up an arret~, by which he e-
dared all the English, travelling in France at the
time f the rupture, prisoner.s of war. Since the
English, he said, were detert med to visit upon
mere traders, innocent of the policy of their gov-
ernment, the consequences of t at policy, he was
~uthorized to do the same, and to e ~ure means
of exchange by constitutin~ the British subjects
actually arreste on the soil of France his prison-
ers. This measure, lou ~ a teat d by the con-
duct of Great Britain., nevertheless ex ibited a
baracter of ri~or whicit was liable to ruffle the
l)ublic opinion, and to excite pprehensious of the
renewal of the violences of th last w r. M.
Cambac6r~s strongly retnonstrated with the first
consul, and obtaitred a modaficatio of the pro-
jected dispositions. Thank~ t his efforts, th se
ispusitions were made t ap~)ly only to such
British subjects as were i~ the military service,
ir held any commission whatever from the gov-
ernment. For the rest, they were not confined,
but merely prisouer~ on parole in various fortified
places.
We pass to the last two units of the fourth
volume, which are the most animated and interest-
ng piece of narrative the ork has yet furnished.
The latter of the two, if it occurred in a history
vritten anywhere but in France, would e headed,
and headed truly, Tue Murder of the Duke
DEnghien. On the pag before us, it is entitled,
more prudently, The Cotispiracy of Georges.
The drif~ of the narrative is not to he mistaken.
It is an attempt, which the writer is hardly at
he trouble of disguising, to find palliati its for the
troci itS deed, which is th principal event related
itt it. The task undertaken is difficult; ?d it is
tot surprising that, however dexterously per-
drmed, the result should be unsatisfactory. In
truth, the only strong point that is made out, is
this; n t that Napoleon A witat was ri5bt, but
that other p rties, as well as lie did tbinps which
were very wrong. Even thL lame defence is de-
formed by exaggerations and positive mistakes or
misrepresentations. The En~iish n inistry are
accused, perseveriogly ed directly, not only of
having employed art pai royalist ag nts t fo-
ment discontents iii France, especially in the army,
and to incite insurrection against the cotisular ov-
eminent, (a charge which is unquestionably true,)
ut of h ving incited and hired sinch persons to
assassinate the first consul. Tinat Napoleon him-
elf believed the charge, is very likely; but it is
truly marvellous that an honorable and well in-
formed man, even though a Frenchman, and a
worshipper of the manes of the emperor, should
at thi time of day believe and repeat the necusa-
tion. Not only is it untrue, ut (we make the
assertion advisedly) there is not th slightest proof
f its truthnot the slightest proof, even by infer-
encein any part of the circumstantial narrative
which is presented to us. Yet it is no very unjust
retribution, that the meutory of the Engli h minis-
try of that time should sniffer by this foul imputa-
ti()n. They who stoop to employ dangerou~ and
unworthy agents, must be content to share sonic
part of the opprobrium whi h the ac~ents e ni by
acting on their own responsibility. If English
gold was furnished to desperate emigrants, in the
hope that it would promote a new revolution in
France, by means not involving actual crime; they
who f rnished it cannot be held free from all blame,
if the assistance given was used for purposes which
the givers never contemplated. The equivocal
intri~ ii s of Mr. Drake, the British minister at
Moni , deserved no better issue th. n the humil-
iating and ludicrous exposure hich they received
front tIn counter-intrigue conducted by the first
consul in person. This p rt of tIne story is told
by M. Thiers ith infini zest, and, we believe,
with complete accuracy. Bitt Mr. Drakes secret
correspondents, (fellows who were in tue pay of
Napol on, and who senut to Munich irifomnation
which was dictated tin tlncut by liitn,) were not the
most dan gerous persotna with wlnom the advisers
of George III. allo ed titems ives to e suspected
of having dealings.
Georacs Cado dal, tine chief of the Chonans of
Morbihann, inn Brittany, had made mis escape (ifl the
final defe t of his band, and was living in Eng-
land. This darin~ and unscrupulous partisan
came the principal agennt in a plot which was
hatched by th emigrants, fur purposes as to which
uhere is still co radi tion among histori al writers.
it was cert inly intenided for the overthrow of the
consular ~ overnm rnt: it is equally certain that the
nuf rtnnate Geuneral Pehegre, lately e~ aped from
Cay me, and living in London, was a party to it;
that it was al o shared in by some of the confiden-
tial advisers of the (Aninnit dArtois; and that Gen-
eral Moreau, living at Paris, in retirement, and
avowedly a ~.al onitenut, as likewise involved in
it. A din to tine royalist writers, nothing was
cunotet p1 ted cyonud insurrection and the restura-
tioni of the Boor ons; (ir, if any design were
entertained agairnst the first consuls life, they
must h e been merely the frantic notions of
Ceo guns, or others n)f the inferior conspirators, and
cannot have been known tin the more elevated per-
(nuages i plicated. According to M. Thiens, and
others, the main ptnrpose was the taking a ay of
Napolemnos life; and the Count dArtois, or sunme
other of the princes, was either to he presenit winen
the deed was done, or was to show himself mine-
dia ely afterwards.
Let us now look at the plan of the new con-
spira y. There was no longer any chance of get-
ting up an insurrection in La Vetud6e; on the other
hand, to make a direct attack on the first consul,
in the very h art of Paris, seem an qually sure
anid speedy means of attainuing the desired end.
Tire cunosular gmnverninent being once overt hurown,
no other government, a cordiry t(n tine authors of
tins project, mold ucc d it hint that of the Bour-
bons. Nuns , as the consular gunveronnent was
wlrolly vested in the person of General Bona-
parte, it was necessary that Ine s oulul be destroyed:
this conclusion was inevitable. Bitt he must be
destroyed without chance of failure. The dagger,
the inifemnial ma hine, and similar nnean-, left too
much tin chance; the firmness of the assassins
he rt or the steadinness of his hand might fail him;
the infernal machine might explode an instant too
non or an inismut to late. But there was one
nnnde which h d not yet been tried, and upon
which, euunisequently, no stigma of ill smuccess
rested; that of assembliry a hunidred resnilute men,
with the intrepid Georges as their leader; to way -
lay the First Cons ls carriage on the minad no St.
Cloud o o lalni ison; to atm it his gunurd, num 7~8 TillERS HISTORY OF NAPOLEON.
bering only some ten or a dozen horse, disperse it,
and kill the first consul in a quasi battle. By
this method success was deemed to be certain.
Georges, who was brave, who had some military
pretensions, and was unwilling to be considered an
assassin, required that two of the princes, or at
all events one of them, should accompany him, and
thus regain his or their ancestral crown sword in
hand. Is it credible? These men, perverted by
exile, flattered themselves th~ t thus to attack the
first consul while surronuded by his guards was
not to assassinate him, but to give him battle!
They seemed to be on a par with the gallant Arch-
doke Charles, combating against G neral Bona-
p:~te at Tagliainento or at Wagram; or only
interior to him as to number of troops! Wretched
sophistry, to which even those who propounded it
could have given hot half credence, and which
stii~rnatizes those unfortun- Ic Bourbons, not indeed
with a natural perversity, but with a perversity
acquired amidst the ferocities of civil war, and in
the weariness and misery of exile. There was
hut one of these men whose part became him,
Georges Cadoudal. He was a proficient in these
surprises, which he had practised in the forest
wilds of Brittany; and now, that he was about to
exert his science at the very gates of Paris, he
did not fear being degraded into the mere herd of
vulgar tools, who are made use of and then dis-
owned or denounced; for he anticipated having
princes for his accomplices. He had thus far se-
cured all the dignity which could comport with the
part that he was about to play; and he subse-
quently showed, by his bearing in the presence of
his judges, that it was not he who was degraded
by these events.
The emigrant actors in the p1 t, whatever its
purpose may have been, proceeded to enter France,
by stealth, in successive parties. They were car-
ried over by Captain Wright, whose tragical fate
afterwards exposed Napoleon to one of the darkest
suspicions that rest upon his name.
All details being titus far arranged, Georges,
with a party of Chonans, upon whose fidelity he
could rely, set out from London for France. He arid
his men were armed, like so many highwaymen; and
he carried in a belt bills of exchange to the amount
of a million. Not for an instant can it be supposed
that the French princes, reduced to all sorts of
expedients to supply their own wants, could fur-
nish such sums as circulated among the wholesale
speculators in conspiracy. Those sums proceeded
from the old source, that is to say, from the British
treasury.
An officer f the Enolish royal navy, Captain
\~r~jgj1~ a bold and skilful seaman, in command
of a light vessel, took on board at Deal or Has-
tings such emigrants as wished to make the French
coast, and landed them at such point in France as
they chose. Since the first consul had discovered
this, and had caused the coast of Brittany to be
more strictly watched than ever, Captain Wright
had chosen another track, and landed his passen-
get-s upon the coast of Normandy.
Between Dieppe and Tr~port, in the side of
the steep cliff of Biville, was a secret passage,
formed in a cleft of the rock, and known only to
smugglers. A cable, securely fixed to the toj (if
the cliff, descended through this cleft, as far as
the surface of the sea. At a certain cry, the con-
cealed wardens of this passage let down the cable,
the smugglers seized it, and, by its aid, climbed
the precipice, two or three hundred feet in height,
carrying heavy loads of merchandise upon their
shoulders. The trusty followers of Georges had
found out this path, arid had readily enough pur-
chased the use (if it. To render their secret corn-
munication with Paris complete, they had estab-
lished a chain of lodging places; sonic in solitary
farms, sonic in the chateaux of Norman nobles,
faithful and wary royalists, who rarely left their
abodes. By these means it wa easy to pass from
the channel coast right onward to Paris without
once to chine upon a high-road or enterina an inn.
Finally, that there might be the less risk of di -
covering this secret way to enemies, it was re-
served for the exclusive use of the most important
personages of the v rty and their immediately fbI-
lowers. The money lavished among some of the
Norman r yahists, whose shelter was thus secured,
the fidelity of others, and, e pecially, the distance
of this se ret track from all frequented roads, ren-
dered imprudenecs but little to be dreaded, and,
for some time, at least, the secret secure.
It was by this route that Georges entered
Paris, disembarking from Ca ~tain Wrights vessel
at the foot of tim cliff of Biville on the 21st of
August, 1803, at the very time when the first
consul was inspecting the coasts. Following the
track of tue smugglers, and accompanied by some
of his most trusty lieutenants, lie proceeded from
shelter to shelter, till he reached Chaillet, in on
of the suburbs of Paris. There a small lodging
was prepared for him, whence he could aigiitly
steal forth mt Paris, to see his associates, amd
make all read to trike the low for which he had
returned to France.
Georges, we are next told, sou ded t e feelings
of the people in La Veudde, and found that no
assistance was to be expected from them. Fiche-
gin, following Georges hiy the same route he had
taiien,lay conceal d in Paris, with M. de Polignac,
and some oiher m n of r ok; and communicated
with his old friend Morean, ho, however, is sak
tin) have shown hintself averse to the rest ration of
the dethroned family. The plot, whatever it was,
encountered obstacles; and Gel) ges remained in
hiding from August, 1803, till J. nuary of the next
year. Suspicion was awakened, amid Napoleon
became anxious; but he had removed Fon lid from
the head of tite police, and his new minister
Regnier, served him less efficiently. The first
consul had to thank his own sagacity and paticuc
for the discovery of the clue.
The first consul was still stron~ly persuaded
that the men who had conceived the plan of the
infernal machine were still more likely to strike
some new blow under existin~ circumstances; and,
struck by some arrests effected in Paris, La Yen-
dde, and Normandy, he said to Murat, then gov-
ernor of Paris, and to M. ildal, who ~as at the
head of the police: The emigrants are certaimily
at their old tricks; there have en several arr sts;
let some of the prisoners be selected and sent before
a military commission ; and rather than be shot
they will tell all that they kno v.~ XVhat we here
relate occurred between the 25th and the 30th of
Janumary, while interviews were taking place be-
tween Pichegrn and Morean, amid just as e con-
spiratt)rs were beconuirtg disheartened. The first
consul had a list of the arrested individuals laid
before huim. In this list he discovered sot e of the
agents of Georges, who had preceded or foIl wed
him into France, and among themti an ex-d ctor of
the Veuddan armies who had landed in Genrinres
company in Atigust. After careful con iderati nTillERS1 HISTORY OF NAPOLEON.
of the indlvidual cases, the first consul pointed
ont five, and said, Either I am greatly mistaken,
or we shall find these men both able and willing
to give us information. For some time past, no
use had been made of the laws formerly enacted
for the establishment of military courts; during
the peace, the first consul had been desirous to
let these laws fall into disuse, bnt, on the renewal
of war, he thought it necessary to call them again
into existence; and especially against those spies
who entered France to watch the preparations
making there agaittst England, and some of whom
had consequently been arrested, condemned, and
shot. The five individuals, whom the first con-
sul now selected, were sent to trial. Two of them
were acquitted; two, being convicted of crimes
punishable with death, were condemned to be
shot, attd suffered that punishment without tnaking
any cottfession, beyond a bold avowal that they
had entered Fratice to serve that legitimate king
who would speedily become victorious over his
republican foes. They also spoke in most hostile
terms against the person of the first consul. The
fifth of these individuals, whom the first consul
had especially l)oiIited out as being likely to make
a clean brea~t, declared, when on the way to exe-
cution, that he had some important information to
give; and lie was immediately visited by one of
the most astute and experienced agents of the
police. He confessed everything, declaring that
he had landed at Biville cliff in company with
Georges himself, as far back as the month of Au-
gtist; that they had made their way through the
woods, front one hiding-place to another, till they
reached Paris, with the intention of murdering the
cotisul, in an attack to be made upon his escort
by open force; and he pointed out several persons,
especially inn-keepers, who were in the habit of
harboring Chouans. This confession threw a
broad and bright liglat upon the subject. The
presence of Georges in Paris was a fact of the
utmost possihle importatice: it was not for any
unimportant attempt that a persoti so important to
his party had lain concealed in the heart of Paris
with a band of hirelings. The point of disem-
barkation at the cliff of Biville was now known;
as t~lso was the existence of a secret road through
the wutids, and some, at least, of the secret lodg-
togs which gave shelter to the conspirators. A
most strange accidetit had revealed a name which
put the first consul and the police tipon the track
of some very important circumstances. A short
time before the period of which we are writitig, a
party of Chouans had landed at this same cliff of
Biville, and had exchanged shots with the gen-
darmerie: a paper wadding which was found on
that occasion, was marked with the name of
Troche. This Troche was a watchmaker at Eti;
and he had a son, a very young man, employed
as a corresponding clerk. This youn~ man was
privately arrested and conveyed to Paris, where lie
was examined and cotifessed all he knew. lie
confessed that it was he who had been employed
to receive the conspirators at the cliff of Biville,
and had guided them to the first stations at which
they were to find shelter; he gave an account of
those three disembarkations of which we have
already spoken ; viz., that of Georges in August,
and those of December and Jatmuary, including
Pichegro, and Messrs. De Rivi~re and De Polignac.
He was unacquainted with the name and rank of
the persons to whom he had acted as guide; but
lie was able to say that, early in February, a fourth
disembarkation was to take place at Biville, he,
in fact, being appointed to receive those who were
to land.
Successive arrests were rapidly made, the first
lieutenant of Georges being seized, among others,
and intimidated into a confession of all he knew,
or suspected. Moreau, too, was put in prison ; a
step which gave rise to insinuations that Napoleon
watited to get rid of a formidable rival; and these
insinuations, reaching the ears of the first consul,
irritated him nmch, and helped to tempt him into
new seventies. One circumstance, in the deposi-
tions of the prisoners, worked on his mind with
fatal effect.
These men, unwilling to be deemed assassins,
hastened to state that they had returned to Paris
in the highest company, including the first nobles
of the Bourbon court, especially Messrs. IDe Pu-
lignac and Dc Rivi~re; and finally, they most dis-
tinctly affirnied, that they were to be headed by a
prince, whose arrival they had hourly looked for;
and that this prince, said to be the Due De Berry,
was to accompany the final disembarkation ami-
nounced to take place in February.
On that point the depositions were to the
highest possible degree precise, full, and consist-
ent; and the conspiracy grew terribly clear to the
eyes of the first consul. He saw the Comte
dArtois and the Due de Berry, surrounded by em-
igrants, connected by means of Pichegru with the
republicans, and maintaining in their service a
horde of mercenaries, whom they proposed to lead
to his murder by means of an ambush, which they
affected to look upon as an honorable and equal
battle. Possessed by a kind of fury, the first con-
sul had, now, but one wish, the seizure of that
prince, who was to reach Paris from the cliff of
Biville. The impassioned language in which
Bonaparte frequently expressed himself against
the Jacobins, subsequent to the affair of the Infer-
nal Machine, was now bestowed exclusively upon
the princes and nobles who could descend to play
such a part. These Bourbons fancy, he ex-
claimed, that they may shed my blood like that
of some vile animal; and yet, my blood is quite as
precious as theirs. I will repay them the alarm
with which they seek to inspire me. I pardon
Morean the weakness and the errors to which he
is urged by a stupid jealousy; hut I will pitilessly
shoot the very first of these princes who shall fall
into my hands I will teach them with what sort
of a man they have to deal. Such was the lan-
guage to which lie was constantly giving utterance
during this terrible investigation. He was thought-
ful, agitated, threatening; and, what was singular
in him, he labored less than usual; for the time,
he seemed to have entirely forgotten Boulonge,
Brest, and the Texel.
Colonel Savary, with fifty picked police-sol-
diers, watched Biville Cliff, night and day, for
weeks, but all in vain. Ne~v measures were
taken.
The first consul, shrinkimig from no means of
attaining his end, resolved to propose a law, the~
nature of which will show what opinion was at;
that time held upon the guarantees of individuah
liberty, now so carefully guarded. A law was~
proposed to the legislative assembly, enacting that;
any person who should shelter Georges Pichegru,.
or any one of sixty of their accomplices, who were~
mentioned by name, would he punished, not by~
imprisonment or the galleys, hut by DEATIi audI
whoever should see them, or be aware of tlteir
79 80 TillERS HISTORY OF NAPOLEON.
hiding-place, and yet fail to denounce them, should the sort of man whom they provoked in attacking
be punished with six years imprisonment. This him.: that he feared no more to put a Bourhon to
fearful law, which commanded, on paiu of death, death, than to do the same by the merest scum of
the commission of a barbarous act, was passed Chouannerie; that be would, ere long, show the
without opposition on the very day of its propo- world that all parties were on a level in his
sal. ~ eyes; that whoever provoked him, no matter what
It is honorable to the citizens of Paris, that but their rank, should feel the whole weight of his
ouc of the conspirators was betrayed. This was hand, and that though he had hitherto been the
Piche~ru. Georges was discovered soon after- most merciful of men, lie would prove that, when
wards and made prisoner, after shootiug one of his roused, he could be one of the most terrible.
captors dead on the spot. His deposition tallied No one dared urge a contradiction. rhe con-
sadly with the circumstance which already por- sul Lebrun was silent. So also was the consul
tended the most bloody part of the catastrophe. Cambac~rds; hut he gave to his silence that char-
Georges was taken to the prefecture of police; acter of disapprobation by which he usually up-
his first excitement over, this chieftain of conspi- posed the first consul. M. Fouch6, who wished
rators had recovered the most perfect coolness. to regain Napoleons favor, and who, though gen-
lie was young and powerful: his shoulders were erally disposed to lenity, was very anxious to e~
square, his features full, and rather mild an.d open broil the government and the royalists, warmly ap-
than gloomy or ferocious, as they might have been proved the idea of making an example; and M.
supposed to be, from the part he had acted. On his Talleyrand, not cruel, indeed, but incapable of op-
person were found a dagger, pistols, and sixty thou- posing power, and possessed to a mischievous cx-
sand francs in gold and bank notes. Examined on tent of a taste for flattering the wishes of those to
the instant, he unhesitatingly told his name, and the whom he was attached, M. de Talleyrand, too,
object of his presence in Paris. He had arrived, argued, with M. Fouch6, that too much consid-
lie said, for the purpose of attacking the first con- eration had already been shown to the royalists;
sul, not by stealing into his palace with four that the lavish kindness shown to them had even
assassins, but openly, by main force, and fighting excited mischievous doubts in the minds of the
in the open country against the consular guard. revolutionists, and that the time had now come
He was to have acted in conjunction with a French when it was necessary to punish severely, and to
prince, who was to have joined him in France for punish without exception. With the exception
that purpose, but who had not arrived. Georges of the consul Cambac6r~s, every one, either tacitly
was in some sort proud of the new character of or in terms, encouraged that anger which needed
this plot, which he with much care distinguished no encouragement to render it terrible, perhaj.s
from an assassination. But, it was remarked to even cruel.
him, you sent Saint R~jant to Paris to prepare The crisis rapidly approached. Napoleon~s own
time Infernal Machine. restless and alarmed activity furnished the las.
I sent him, replied Georges, hot with no link in the chain of causes which were to prompt
detailed instructions as to the means which he was him to a crime.
to employ. The first consul, annoyed at not having been
A poor explanation, which but too clearly able to lay hold of one of those princes who had
showed that Georges had been no stranger to that conspired against his life, now glanced around at
horrible crime. However, on every point that the various parts in which they, respectively, had
concerned others than himself, this bold conspira- found shelter. One morning, while in his study
tor preserved a resolute silence, repeating that with Messrs. de Talleyrand and Fouch6, lie in-
there were victims enough already, and that he quired about the various members of that unforto-
would not add to their number. * * * * nate family, as pitiable for its errors as for its mis-
Would to Heaven that the first consul had fortunes. He was told, in reply, that Louis
remained contented with the means lie already XVIII. and the I)uc dAngoul~rne lived at War-
possessed of confounding his enemies! He could saw; the Comte dArtois and the Due de Berry in
have struck awe into them, by inflicting the pun- London, where, also, were the princes of Cond~,
ishments recognized by our laws; still further he with the exception of the third, the youngest and
could have overwhelmed them with confusion :~ for most enterprizirtg~ of them, the Due DEnghien,
he had obtained abundance of proofs of their guilt. xvho lived at Ettenheim, very near Strasburg, iii
He had in his hands even more than was needed which neighborhood it was that Messrs. Taylor,
for his safety and reputation. But, as we have Smith, and Drake, the English diplomatic agents,
already remarked, though he, at this period, was busied themselves in fomenting intrigues. The
well disposed towards the republicans, the royal- I idea that that young prince might make use of the
ists had outraged and disgusted him with their in- bridge of Strasburg, as the Comte dArtois had
gratitude, and he was resolved that they should intended to make use of Biville Cliff, suddenly
feel the full wei:,ht of his power. Besides the flashed across the mind of the first consul ; and he
spirit of reven0e, another feelin~, occupied his determined to send an intelligent sub-officer into
hearta sort of pride. He openly said to all who that neighborhood to obtain information. There
approached him, that he cared as little, perhaps was a sub-officer of gendarmerie, who in his youth
rather less, for a Bourbon., than for a Moreau or a had served under the princes of Condd; and he
Pichegru; that these princes entertained a notion now received orders to assume a disguise, and to
that they were inviolate, and that this notion led proceed to Ettenheim to make inquiries as to the
them to involve in their plots unfortunate men of connexions of the young prince, and his way of
all ranks, and then to shelter themselves beyond life. The sub-officer accordingly repaired to Et-
sea; that they were greatly mistaken in putting tenheim. The young prince had lived there some
so much trust in that shelter; and that he should time with a princess of Rohan, to whom he was
infallibly finish with seizing some one of them, and warmly attached: and he divided his time between
having him shot to death like a common malefac- this attachment and enjoying time pleasures of the
tor; that it was requisite to let these prinePs feel chase in the Black Forest. He had been directedTIllERS HISTORY O1~ NAPOLEON.
by the British cabinet to repair to the banks of the
Rhine, no doubt in anticipation of that movement
of which Messrs. Drake, Smith and Taylor had
held out ill-founded hopes. This prince expected,
then, that he should shortly have to fight against
his countrya pitiable task to which he had for
some years been accustomed; but nothing proves
that he knew anything about the conspiracy of
Georges everything that is known about him
tends, on the contrary, to the supposition that he
was ignorant of it. He often left Ettenheim on
sporting excursions, and sometimes, it was said,
even to go to the theatre at Strasburg. Certain
it is, that these reports had so much of probability
that they induced his father to write to him from
London a letter strictly cautioning him to greater
prudence. In the personal suite of the young
prince were certain emigrants, among them a Mar-
quis de Thumery.
The sub-officer who was sent to make inquiries
arrived at Ettenheim in disguise, and made his
way even into the very household of the prince,
and obtained a whole host of particulars, from
which prejudiced jnd~ments might easily draw
the most fatal inferences. The young duke was
said to be very frequently absent from Ettenheim;
sometimes his absence lasted for days, and his
journey extended to Strasbnrg. A person in his
suite, who was represented as of far more conse-
quence than he really was, bore a name which the
Germans, who gave these particulars to the sub-
officer, mispronounced in such a way, that it
sounded like that of General Dumouriez. The
person in question was, in reality, the Marquis de
Thurnery, of whom we have already made men-
tion; and the sub-officer, misled by the German
pronunciation, quite honestly took that name to
designate General Dumouriez, and this name he
put into the report, written under this unfortunate
mistake, and immediately despatched to Paris.
This fatal report reached Paris on the morning
of the 10th of March. On the previous eventng,
at night, and on the very morning in question, a
no less fatal deposition had been repeatedly made
by Leridant, the servant of Georges, and arrested
with him. At first this young man had resisted
the most pressing interrogations; but at length he
spoke out with an apparently complete sincerity;
declaring that there was a conspiracy, that a prince
was at its head, that this prince either soon would
arrive, or had arrived already; and that his own
opinion inclined to the latter state of the case, as
he had frequently seen, as a visiter of Georges, a
yoting and well-dressed man, of distinguished
manners, to whom all seemed to pay great re-
spect. This depositi~on, repeatedly renewed, and
each time with fresh (letails, was laid before the
first consul. The report of the sub-officer of
gendarmerie was presented to him at the same
time; and the coincidences struck his mind with a
most lamentable force. The absences of the Due
DEn~,hien from Ettenheim immediately connected
themselves with the pretended presence of the
young Prince in Paris; and that young man, to
whom all the conspirators paid so much respect,
could not be a prince arrived from London, so
strictly as Biville Cliff had been watched. This
young man could be ne other than the Due DEn-
ghein, travelling from Ettenheim to Paris in eight-
and-forty hours, and returning in the same space
of time, after having a brief conference with his
guilty accomplices.
Napoleons decision was formed at once. It
81
was announced to his council, and combated, but
ineffectually, by CambacSr~s alone. A detach-
ment of troops was sent to seize the Duke DEn-
ghien and bring him to Paris; another to present
a weak apology to the Grand Duke of Baden,
whose territory was to be violated. Both detach-
ments set out five days after the meeting of the
council. The prince was seized, carried to Stras-
burg, and thence to Paris; where, at the Cha-
renton gate, his guarded carriage stood from noon
till five oclock on the 20th of March, 1804. It
was then ordered to the castle of Vincennes.
That which ensued is told by M. Thiers with a
brevity not to he wondered at, when adopted by
one so deeply interested in the fame of his hero.
His main purpose would in no way have been pro-
moted by particulars, tending either to show the
enormity of the crime, or to excite compassion for
the victim. The most curious parts of the nar-
rative are those which describe Napoleons own
demeanor. lie had passed from the alternate
anxiety and rage which had at first possessed him.
At the approach of the moment of this terrible
sacrifice, the first consul desired solitude.
On the 18th of March, Palm Sunday, he set
out for Malmaison, where, better than elsewhere,
he could command quietness and solitude. With
the exception of the consuls, the ministers, and
his brothers, he received no one. For hours to-
gether he walked about by himself, giving to his
countenance an expression of calmness which he
felt not in his heart. Even his inoccupation proves
the agitation to which he was a prey; for during
a whole week that he staid at Malmaison, he dic-
tated scarcely a single letteran unique instance of
idleness in his active life; and yet, only a few days
earlier, all the energies of his mind had been be-
stowed upon Brest, Boulogne, and the Texel!
His wife, who, in common with all his family, was
acquainted with the arrest of the prince ; his wife,
who, unable to help sympathizing with the Bour-
bons, thought with horror of the shedding of royal
blood ; his wife, with that foresight of the heart
which is peculiar to women, perhaps anticipated
that a cruel action would draw down retaliative
cruelties upon her husband, her children and her-
self, and spoke to him several times about the
prince, shedding tears as she thought of his de-
struction, which she feared was resolved upon,
though her mind revolted from such a belief. The
first consul, who somewhat prided himself upon
repressing the movements of his heart, naturally
so generous and kind, whatever might be said to
the contrary by those who did not know him, the
first consul repelled these tearful supphications, of
which he feared the effect upon his resolve, and
replied to Madame Bonaparte in a homely style,
which he strove to renderharsh: you area~-o-
man, and know nothing about politics; your proper
part is to hold your tongue.
After the orders have been described, which
were issued to the court-martial held at Vincennes,
we are told that M. R~al, a councillor of state
employed under the minister of police, had been
commanded to examine the prisoner personally,
and endeavor to ascertain what he knew about the
conspiracy; and it is suggested that, if the inter-
view had taken place, the innocence of the prisoner
must have become evident, and the execution
would not have taken place. But his own earnest
request for an interview with the first consul him-
self was rejected by Savary, who superintended
the execution; and R6al and he never met. 82 1~t1IERS HISTOItY OF NAPOLEON.
The orders of the morning, to finish all during
the night, were positive. A delay could only he
procured by the arrival of M. Rdal to interrogate
the prince. M. R6al did not make his appear-
ance; the night xvas far spent; day was at hand.
The prince was taken down into a fosse of the
chateau, and there, with a firmness worthy of his
race, received the fire of those soldiers of the
republic, whom, in the ranks of the Austrians, he
had so often fought against. Melancholy reprisals
of civil war He was buried upon the very spot
where he fell.
Colonel Savary immediately set ont to report
to the first consul the execution of his orders.
On the road the colonel met M. R6al on his way
to question the prisoner. This councillor of state,
exhausted with fatigue by the continued labor of
several days and nights, had given orders to his
servants not to disturb him ; the order of the first
consul was not placed in his hands until five oclock
in the morning; he arrived, but too late. This
was not, as it has been said to be, a scheme plan-
ned to force the first consul into a crime; not at all,
it was an accident, a pure accident, by which the
unfortunate prince was deprived of the sole chance
of saving his life, and the first consul of a happy
opportunity of saving his glory from a stain. A
deplorable consequence of violating the ordinary
forms of justice! When these forms, invented by
the experience of ages to guard human life against
the mistakes of judges, when these sacred forms
are violated, men are at the mercy of chance, of
mere trifles! The lives of accused people, and
the honor of governments, are then sometimes
dependent upon the most fortuitous coincidences!
No doubt, the first consul had formed his resolve;
but he was much agitated; and could the voice of
the unfortunate Cond6, appealing for life, have
reached his ear, that cry would not have been
uttered in vain: he would have yielded, and
proudly yielded, to his gentler feelings.
Colonel Savary arrived at Malmnaison in a state
of great emotion. lIis presence gave rise to a
painful scene. Madame Bonaparte guessed all as
soon as she saw him, and burst into tears; and M.
do Caulaincourt, in accents of despair, exclaimed
that he was dishonored. Colonel Savary pro-
ceeded to the first consnls study, fonnd him alone
with M. de Meneval, and gave him an account of
what had taken place at Vincennes. The first
consul asked, Did M. iR6al see the prisonerl
Colonel Savary had scarcely answered in the
negative when M. R6al made his appearance, and
trernblingly apologized for the non-execution of
the orders he had received. Without expressing
either approbation or anger, the first consul dis-
missed these instruments of his will, went into an
apartment of his library, and shut himself up in
solitude there for several hours.
In the evening, there was a family dinner at
Malmaison: all wore serious and saddened coun-
tenances, and no one ventured to speak, the first
consul himself being as silent as the rest. This
silence at length became embarrassing; and, on
rising from the table, the first consul himself broke
it, addressing himself exclusively to M. de Eon-
tanes, who had just arrived. He was alarmed at
the event which was noised throughout Paris; but
he could not express his feelings where he now
was. He listened chiefly, and replied but little.
The first consul, speaking almost without interrup-
tion, and endeavoring to make up for the silence
of his company, discoursed upon the princes of all
times, upon the Roman emperors, upon the French
kings, upon Tacitus, and the judgments of that
historian, and upon the cruelties which were fre-
quently attributed to the rulers of states, when
these, in fact, only yielded to inevitable necessm-
ties. Having by this circuitous route approached
the tragical subject of the day, he said
They wish to destroy the Revolution in-attack-
ing my person. I will defend it, for 1,1, 1am the
Revolution. They will be more cautious in
future; for they will know of what we are capa-
ble.
We cannot quote more than one paragraph of
the historians closing remarks on this bloody
story. Nothing can be more instructively true
than the moral drawn from it. The perpetrator
of the crime was punished for its commission, even
in the progress of the design to which it was to
have been subservient. Nothing he had ever done
was so effectual in precipitating the new coalition
against him.
None were satisfied with what had been done
at Vincennes, save those hot revolutionists, whose
senseless rule the first consul had brought to an
end, and who now saw him in a single day reduced
almost to their level. None of them any longer
feared that General Bonaparte would act for the
Bourbons.
Sad proof of the frailty of the human mind!
This extraordinary man, of so great and accurate
an intellect, and of so generous a heart, had lately
been so stern in his judgment of the revolutionists
and their excesses! He had pronounced upon
their frenzy without qualification, and sometimes
even without justice. lie bad bitterly reproached
them with having shed the blood of Louis XVI.,
disgraced the revolution, and irreconcilably em-
broiled France with Europe! Then he judged
calmly; and now, his passions being excited, he
had in a single instant paralleled the deed corn-
mitted upon the person of Louis XVI., and had
placed himself in a state of moral opposition to
Europe, which speedily rendered a general war
inevitable, and compelled him to go in search of
peacea magnificent peace, it is trueto Tilsit,
to the other end of Europe! How well calculated
are such contrasts to rebuke human pride of intel-
lect, and to prove that the most transcendent
genius is not safe from the most vulgar errors, if,
even for a single instant, it is deprived of self-con-
trol and swayed by passion.
The investigation, which terminated so foully,
had called away Napoleon for a time, and its
issue for a time averted the eyes of Europe, from
an undertaking of his which, bad it been executed,
(whether finally successful or not,) would have
been the very greatest of all his military achieve-
ments. We allude to his projected invasion of
England. Our countrymen, at the time, although
they prepared themselves manfully to meet the
attack, if it should he made, could hardly believe
that the design was seriously entertained. There
can, however, be no doubt that it was; arid it is
just as clear that the purpose was within an ace of
being accomplished. The reasons for undertaking
this bold adventure are well and fairly set forth by
M. Thiers.
It would have been a difficult task, even for
the ablest and the most firmly established govern-
ment, to maintain a conflict with England. It
was easy, it is true, for the first consul to screen
himself from her blows; but it was just as easy for
England to screen herself from his. England andThEtIS HISTORY OF NAPOLEON.
France had conquered a nearly equal empire, the
former at sea, the latter on land. Hostilities hav-
ing commenced, England was about to unfurl her
flag in both hemispheres, to take some Dutch and
Spanish colonies; perhaps, but with more diffi-
culty, some French colonies. She was about to
interdict navigation to all nations, and to arrogate
it to herself exclusively; but, unaided, she could
do no more. The appearance of English troops
on the continent would but have brought upon her
a disaster similar to that of the Helder in 1799.
France, on her part, could, either by force or by
influence, forbid England access to the coasts of
Europe from Copenhagen to Venice, confine her
intercourse to the shores of the Baltic alone, and
oblige her to bring down from the Pole the colo-
nial produce, of which, during the war, she would
he the sole depository. But, in this struggle of
two great powers, who ruled each on one of the
two elements, without having the means of quit-
ting them to grapple one another, it was to be
feared that they would be restricted to threatening
without striking; and that the world, trampled
upon by them, would finally rebel against one or
the other, for the purpose of withdrawing itself
from the consequences of this tremendous quarrel.
In such a situation, success must belong to that
which should contrive to get out of the element in
which it reigned, to reach its rival; and, if that
effort proved impossible, to that which should find
means to render its cause so popular in the world,
as to gain it over to its side. It was difficult for
both to attach nations to themselves. For Eng-
land, in order to arrogate to herself the monopoly
of commerce, was obliged to harass neutrals; and
France, in order to close the continent against the
commerce of England, was obliged to do violence
to all the powers of Europe. To conquer Eng-
land, therefore, it was requisite to solve one of
these problems: either to cross the channel and
march to London, or to sway the continent, and
to oblige it, either by force or policy, to refuse all
British commodities; to realize, in short, an inva-
sion or a continental blockade. We shall see, in
the course of this history, by what series of events
Napoleon was gradually led from the first of these
enterprises to the second; by what a concatena-
tion of prodigies he at first approached his aim so
as nearly to attain it; by what a combination of
faults and misfortunes, he was afterwards hurried
away from it, and finally fell. Happily, before
reaching that deplorable term, France had achiev-
ed such things, that a nation which Providence
permits to accomplish them remains forever glori-
ous, and perhaps the greatest of nations.
Such were the proportions which this war
between France and Great Britain must inevitably
take. It had been from 1792 to 1801 the struggle
of the democratic principle against the aristocratic
principle; without ceasing to have this character,
it was about to become, under Napoleon, the
struggle of one element against another, with
much more difficulty for us than for the English;
for the whole continent, out of detestation to the
French revolution, out of jealousy of our power,
must hate France much more heartily than the
neutrals hated England.
With his keen glance, the first consul soon
perceived the drift of this \var; and he took his
resolution without hesitating. He formed the
plan of crossing the Strait of Calais with an army,
and putting an end to the rivalship of the two
nations in London itself. We shall find hini for
tlmree successive years applying all his faculties to
this prodigious enterprise, and remaining calm,
confident, even happy; so full of hope was he in
anticipation of an attempt, which must either lead
to his becoming absolute master of the world, or
bury himself, his army, his glory, in the depths
of the oceami.
But, though the invasion, if successful, would
have put an end to the war at once, the obstacles
in its way would, for any other man, have been
insurmountable. He was too wise to attack Eng-
land with any force, short of that which was suffi-
cient to make him, temporarily at least, master of
the provinces in which he should first land. The
transport of an army so large was a tremendous
undertaking.
It is a vast and difficult operation to carry
beyond sea twenty or thirty thousand men only.
The expedition to Egypt, executed fifty years ago,
the expedition against Algiers, executed in or.r
days, are proofs of this. What an undertaking it
must be to embark 150,000 soldiers, ten or fifteen
thousand horses, three or four thousand pieces of
cannon and their carriages! A ship of the line
can carry on an average six or seven hundred men,
in case the passage takes some days; a large
frigate can contain half the number. For embark-
ing such an army, there would of course be re-
quired 200 sail of the line, that is to say, a chi-
merical naval force, which nothing but the con-
currence of France and England in the same
object could render barely conceivable. An at-
tempt to throw 150,000 men into England, if Eng-
land had been at the distance of Egypt or the
Morea, would consequently have been an impracti-
cable undertaking. But there was only the Strait
of Calais to cross, that is to say, only eight or ten
leagues to go. There was no necessity for em-
ploying large ships for such a passage. Neither
could they have been employed, if one had had
them, for there is not a single port capable of
admitting them from Ostend to Havre; neither is
there, without going far out of the way, a single
port on the other side where they could effect a
landing. The idea of small vessels, considering
the passage and the nature of the ports, had there-
fore at all times occurred to all minds. Besides,
these small vessels were adequate to such marine
circumstances as were liable to be met with. Loimg
observations made on time coast had led to the dis-
covery of these circumstances, and to the deter-
mination of the vessels best adapted to the pur-
pose. In summer, for instaimce, there are in the
Channel almost absolute cahos, and long enough
to enable one to reckon upon forty-eight hours of
the same weather. It would take about that num-
ber of homirs, not to cross, but for the immense
flotilla in question to work out of harbor. During
this calm, the English cruisers being condemned to
lie motionless, vessels built to go either with oars
or sails might pass with impunity even before an
enemys squadron. Winter had also its favorable
momnents. The dense fogs of the cold season,
being attended with no wind, or scarcely any,
offered another chance of crossing in presence of
an enemys force, either immovable or deceived by
the fog. There was still a third favorable occa-
sion, namely, that offered by the equinoxes. It
frequently happens that, after equinoctial storms,
the wind suddenly subsides, and leaves sufficient
time for crossing the strait, before the return of
the enemys squadron, which is obliged by the
gale to stand off. Such were the circumstances84
TillERs HISTORY OF NAPOLEON.
universally fixed upon by the seamen living on the capable of assisting the mind to foresee the differ-
oast of the Channel. ent chances. Admiral Decr~s, a man of superior
There was one case, in which, in all seasons intelligence, but disposed to find fault, admitted
and in any weather, excepting a tempest, one that, by sacrificing a hundred vessels and ten
might always cross the strait: it was when a thousand men, one might probably get over an en-
strong squadron of the line could be brought for a counter with an enemys squadron, and cross the
few hours by skilful maneuvres into the Channel. strait. One loses them every day in battle, re-
Then the flotilla, protected by this squadron, could plied the first consul; and what battle ever prom-
sail without being uneasy about the enemys cmi- ised the results which a landing in England an
sers. thorizes us to hope for B
But the case of a great French squadron Boulogne was fixed upon as the central station
brought between Calais and Dover depended on of the flotilla. Thither the vessels were gathered
such difficult combinatins, that it could not be at as built ; and the port, and those of two neighbor-
all reckoned upon. It was requisite even, to build ing bays, were enlarged and improved for their re-
the transpurt flotilla in such a fashion, that it ception. These operatious were performed by tIe
might, to appearance at least, dispense with any soldiery, who were encamped about Boulognc;
auxiliary force ; for if it had becn demonstrated by and who, encouraged by additional pay as well as
its construction that it was impossible for it to keep by the enthusiastic hope of new and miDhiier tri-
the sea without an assisting squadron, the secret umphs, labored with the same alacrity as did all
of this great operation would have been intmedi- who were engaged in the vast preparations. Dar-
ately revealed to the enemy. Aware of this, they ing attempts were incessantly made, by the English
would have concentrated all their naval forces in cruisers, to destroy the vessels of the flotilla,
the strait, and prevented every man~uvre of either as they lay in harbor, or in their passage
French squadrons for the purpose of getting thi- along the coast. Many brave actions were fought;
ther? but no serious damage was done to the French
Indeed, although the history does not yet carry boats. Extensive works were erected to defend
us down so far, we shall learn, hereafter, that it the port and anchorage of Boulogne; and these
was on the last of these projects that Napoleon also were constantly attacked, in their progress,
really relied; and that all his naval manmuvres by the English sailors.
were long directed to the one object, of gaining the Their cruisers, consisting in general of about
command of the Straits of Dover for the French twenty vessels, three or four of them seventy-fours,
fleet, under cover of which the flotilla of Boulogne five or six frigates, ten or twelve brigs and cutters,
might cross to the shores of Kent. and a certain number of gun-boats, kept up an in-
Small armed vessels, of three kinds, were built cessant fire upon our workmen. Their balls,
everywhere, in France, and in the neibboring passing over the cliff, fell in the harbor and the
countries which were then at her disposal. All camps. Though their projectiles had done very
of them were flat bottomed, that they might be little damage, still this firing was extremely annoy-
floated down rivers to the sea, and carried close ing, and, when a great number of boats were
along the defended coast, so as to be beyond the crowded together, might cause great mischief,
reach of the English cruisers, perhaps even a conflagration. One night even,
These three species of vessels were to be col- the English, advancing most daringly in their pin
lected to the number of twelve or fifteen hundred. naces, surprised the workshops in which the mate-
They were to carry at least three thousand pieces of rials for the construction of tite wooden fort were
cannon of large calibre, besides a great number of preparing, cut in pieces the machines used for
pieces of small dimensionthat is to say, discharge driving piles, and did as much mischief to the
as many projectiles as the strongest squadron, works as it took several days to repair. The first
Their fire was da ngerotts, because it was horizon- consul was greatly irritated at this attempt, and
tal, and directed so as to take effect between wind issued fresh orders for preventing the like in fu-
and water. When engaged with large ships, they tore. Armed boats, relieving one another like
presented a mark difficult to hit, and, on the con- sentries, were to pass the night around the works.
trary, fired at a mark which they could scarcely The workmen, encouraged, piqued in their honor,
miss. They could move about, divide, and sur- like soldiers whom one is leading against an ene-
round the enemy. But if they had the advantages my, were induced to work in presence of the
of division, they had also its inconveniences. The English ships, and under the fire of their artillery.
order to be introduced into this moving and pro- It was at low water only that the works could be
digio usly numerous mass was an extremely diffi- prosecuted. When the heads of the piles were
cult problem, in the solution of which Admiral left sufficiently uncovered, by the water, for driv-
Bruix and Napoleon were incessantly engaged for ing, the men fell to before the tide was out, and
three years. We shall see by and by to what a continued, while it was returning, up to the middle
degree of precision in the maneuvres they con- in water, singing as they worked, while the balls
trived to attain, and to what point the problem was of the English were flying around them. The
resolved by them, first consul, however, with his inexhaustible fer
What effect would have been produced by a tihity of invention, contrived new precautions to
squadron of large ships, dashing in full sail through keep off the enemy. He caused experiments to be
this mass of small craft, running down, upsetting made on the coast, to ascertain the range of heavy
all before them, sinking those struck by their balls, cannon, fired at an angle of forty-five degrees,
but surrounded in their turn by this swarm of ene- nearly as mortars are fired. The experiment sue-
mies, receuving on all sides a dangerous fire of ceeded: twenty-four-pound balls were projected to
artillery, assailed by the musketry of a hundred the distance of 2300 fathoms, and the English
thousand infantry, and perhaps boarded by intrepid were obliged to keep at that distance. He did
soldiers, trained to the maneuvre I It is impossi- still more: thinking incessantly on the same sub-
ble to say; for one cannot form any idea of so ject, he first devised an instrument which, at this
strange a scene, without any known antecedent, day, occasions frightful ravages, and which appearsTITtERS HISTORY OF NAPOLEON.
destined to produce powerful effects in maritime
warfarehollow projectiles employed against ship.
ping. He ordered large shells to be fired at the
vessels. These, hursting in the timber-work or
the sails, could not fail to produce fatal breaches
in the hull, or large rents in the rigging. It is
with projectiles which hurst, he wrote, that timber
must be attacked. It is not easy to introduce any-
thing new, especially where there are old habits to
be overcome; and he had to repeat frequently the
same instructions. When the English, instead of
those solid halls, which dash like lightning through
everything hefore them, but limit their ravages to
their own diameter, heheld a projectile having, it
is true, less impulsion, hut which explodes like a
mine, either in the hull of the ship, or on the heads
of her defenders, they were surprised, and kept at
a great distance. Lastly, to obtain still more se-
curity, the first consul devised an expedient not
less ingenious. He conceived the idea of establish-
ing sub-marine batteries; that is to say, he had
batteries of heavy cannon and large mortars placed
at low-water mark, which were covered by the sea
at high-water, and left uncovered at ebb-tide. It
cost great trouble to secure the platforms on which
the pieces rested, so as to prevent them from sink-
ing into the sand, or being buried by it. This
was accomplished, however; and at ebb-tide,
which was the time for work, when the English
approached to disturb the men, they xvere received
with discharges of artillery, poured all at once from
the low-water line ; so that the fire advanced or
receded, iti a manner, with the sea itself. rhese
batteries were employed only while the forts were
building ; as soon as they were finished they be-
came useless.
Before the end of December, 1803, nearly a
thousand vessels, of one sort or another, ~vere col-
lected in and about the harbor of Boulogne. The
troops destined for the expedition were in camp
at the same place; and the work of training went
on with steadiness and success.
Particular care was taken to produce complete
harmony between the seamen and the soldiers, by
the constant appropriation of the same vessels to
the same troops. The dimensions of the nun-
brigs and gun-boats had been calculated for them
to carry a company of infantry, besides some artil-
lery. This was the element employed to deter-
mine the general organization of the flotilla. The
battalions were then composed of nine companies;
the demi-brigades of two war battalions, the third
remaining at the depot. The gun-brigs and gun-
boats were arranged in conformity with this com-
position of the troops. Nine brigs or boats formed
a section, atid carried nine companies, or one bat-
talion. Two sections formed a division, and car-
ried a demi-brigade. Thus the boat or brig
answered to the cotnpany, the section answered to
the battalion, the division to the demi-brigade.
Naval officers of corresponding rank commanded
the boat, the section, the division. To produce a
perfect coherence of the troops with the flotilla,
each division was appropriated to a demi-brigade,
each section to a battalion, each brig or boat to a
company; and this appropriation, once made, was
invariable. Thus the troops were always to keep
the same vessel, and to attach themselves to it, as
a rider attaches himself to his horse. Land and
sea officers, soldiers and sailors, would by these
means learn to know and to have confidence in one
another, and be the more disposed to render each
other mutual assistance. Each company was to
85
furnish the vessel belonging to it with a garrison
of twenty-five men, forming a fourth of the com-
pany, always on board. These twenty-five men,
forming a fourth of the cotnpany, remained on
board about a month. During this time, they
lodged in the vessel with the crew, whether the
vessel went to sea to manmuvre or lay in harbor.
There they did all that the sailors themselves did,
assisted in working the vessel, and exercised them-
selves in particular in the management of the oars
and in firing the cannon. When they had passed
a month in this kind of life, they were succeeded
by twenty-five other soldiers of the same company,
who came to devote themselves for the same space
of time to nautical exercises. Thus the whole
cotnpany in succession took its turn on board the
brigs or boats. Each man, therefore, was alter-
nately land soldier, sea soldier, artilleryman, sai-
lor, and even laboring engineer, in consequence of
the works carrying on in the basins. The sailors
likewise took part in this reciprocal training.
They had infantry arms on board; and, when they
were in port, they performed the infantry exercise
in the day-time on the quay. They formed conse-
quently an accession of 15,000 foot-soldiers, who,
after the landing in England, would be capable of
defending the flotilla along the coasts where it
would be lying aground. By giving them a rein-
forcement of about 10,000 men, they might await
with impunity on the shore the victories of the in-
vading army. * * *
After incessantly repeated exercises, all these
man~uvres came to be executed with equal
promptness and precision. Every day, in all
weathers, unless it blew a storm, from 100 to 150
boats went out to man~uvre, or to anchor in the road
before the enemy. The operation of sham landing
along the cliffs was performed. The men first
exerctsed themselves in sweeping the shore by a
steady fire of artillery, then in approaching the
beach, and landing men,horses, and cannon. Fre-
quently, when the boats could not get close to the
shore, the men were thrown into the water where
it was five or six feet deep. None were ever
drowned, such was the dexterity and ardor which
they displayed. Sometimes even the horses were
landed in the same manner. They were let down
into the sea, and men in small boats directed them
with a halter towards the shore. In this manner,
there was not an accident that could happen in
landing on an enemys coast but was provided
abainst and several times braved, with the addition
of all the difficulties which could be thought of,
even those of night, excepting, however, the diffi-
culty of the fire; but that would rather he a stimu-
lant than an obstacle for these soldiers, the hravest
in the world by nature and by the habit of war.
This variety of land and sea exercises, these
manmuvres intermixed with hard labor, interested
these adventurous soldiers, full of imagination and
ambition, like their illustrious chief. With con-
siderably better fare, thanks to the earttings of
their labor, added to their pay, contittual activity,
the keenest and most salubrious air, all this could
not but give them extraordinary physical strength.
The hope of performing a prodigy added a moral
force equally great. Thus was gradually trained
that incomparable army, which was destined to
achieve the conquest of the continent in two years.
The first consul spent great part of his time
among them. He was filled with confidence, when
he saw them so disposed, so alert, so animated
with his own feelings. They in their turn receivedIIISTORV OF NAPOLEON.
continual excitement from his presence. They
saw him on horseback, sometimes on the top of
the cliffs, sometimes at their feet, galloping over
the sands, left smooth and hard by the receding
tide, ~oing in that manner by the strand from one
port to another; sometitnes on board light pin~
n~-ces, going to be present at petty skirmishes be-
tween our gun-boats and the English cruisers,
pushing them upon the enemy, till he had made
their cutters and frigates fall back by the fire of
our frail vessels. Frequently he persisted in brav-
ing the sea; and once, having determined to visit
the anchorage, in spite of a violent gale, the boat,
in which he was returoing, sunk nor far from the
shore. Luckily the men had footing. The
sailors threw theniselves into the sea, and, formino-
a close group to ~vithstand the waves, carried him
on their shoulders through the billows breaking
over their heads.
One day, passing over the beach in this man-
ner, he was animated by the sight of the coasts of
England, and wrote the following lines to Camba-
c6r~s, the consul: I have passed these three days
amidst the camp and the port. From the heights
of Ambleteuse I have seen the coast of England,
as one sees Calvary from the Tuilleries. One
could dist.inguish the houses and the bustle. It is
a ditch that shall be leaped when one is daring
enough to try.
His impatience to execute this great enterprize
was extreme. He had at first thought of the con-
clusion of autumn; now lie was for deferring it till
the beginning, or, at latest, the middle, of winter.
But the labor was evidently increasing; and, some
new improvement daily occurring either to him or
to Admiral Bruix, lie sacrificed time in order to in-
troduce it. The drilling of the soldiers arid sailors
was rendered more perfect by these inevitable de-
lays, which thus brought along with them their
own compensation. The projected expedition
might, indeed, have been attempted after these
eight months apprenticeship: but it would require
six more, if one were to wait till everything was
ready, till the equipping and arming were com-
pleted, till the training of the landsinen and seamen
left nothing more to be desired.
But decisive considerations commanded a new
delay.
The concentration of the fleets was still rmnac-
complished; and without having effected this, the
condition which lie relied on for securing his pas-
sage across the straits, the first consul was too
prudent to move.
A last condition of success was yet left to be
secured; arid this condition the first consul con-
sidered equivalent to a certainty of the accom-
plishment of his enterprise. These vessels, now
tried, were quite capable of crossing a strait ten
leagues wide; since most of them had had one
hundred or two hundred leagues to go to reach
Boulogne, and had frequently by their scattered
and horizontal fire replied with advantage to the
downward and concentrated fire of the ships.
They had a chance of passing, without being
seen or attacked, either in the calms of summer
or in the fogs of winter; and, under the~most un-
favorable supposition, if they were to fall in
with the twenty-five or thirty cutters, brigs, and
frigates which the English had cruising, they
must pass, were it necessary to sacrifice a hun-
dred brigs or boats of the two thousand three
hundred composing the flotilla. But there w~s a
case which appeared to be exempted from every
unlucky chance; namely, when a strong French
squadron, appearing suddenly in the Strait, should
drive the English cruisers from it, keep possession
of the channel for two or three days, and cover the
passage of our flotilla. With this case, there
could exist no doubt: all the objections raised
against the enterprise fell at once, excepting that
of an unforeseen storm, an improbable chance if
the season were judiciously chosen, and, moreover,
at all times wholly beyond the reach of calcula-
tion. But it was requisite that the third of the
squadrons of ships of the line, that of Toulon,
should be completely equipped; and it was not so.
The first consul destined it to excute a grand
combination, the secret of which he communicated
to none, not even to his minister of ihe interior.
This combination he matured by degrees~ saying
not a word about it to anybody, and leaving the
English under the impression that the flotilla was
to act independently, since it was armed so com-
pletely, and brought forward every day against
frigates and ships of the line.
This man, so daring in his conceptions, was
the most liruident of captains in the execution.
Though he had 120,000 men assembled at his dis-
posal, he would not stir without the co5peration
of the Texel fleet carrying 20,000 men, without
the Brest fleet carrying 18,000, without the fleets
of La Rochelle, Ferrol, and Toulon, charged to
clear the Strait by a profound manmuvre. He
was anxious to have all these means ready for
February, 1804, and flattered himself that he
should ; when important events in the interior of
the republic suddenly withdrew his attention for
a moment from a great enterprise, on which the
eyes of the whole world were fixed. * * * *
Neither of the two nations suspected the ex-
istence of other preparations than those which
were publicly and even ostentatiously made. The
English, imagining that Brest and Toulon were
strictly blockaded, did not dream that a squadron
might suddenly make its appearance in the Chan-
nel. The French, daily exercised in manmo-
vring their gun-boats, were, on the other hand,
accustomed to look upon them as the sole means
of crossing the Strait. No one suspected the
existence of what ~vas,in truth, the most important
of the first consuls plan ; though some hoped in
France, and some feared in England, some new and
sudden invention of his daring and fertile genius,
and confidence and anxiety were thus, to a very
high degree, excited on either side of the Channel.
The youngest among us have heard, from our
fathers, how mens blood was stirred in that
eventful time; and how anxiety, and courage, and
warlike preparations, ran like wildfire through the
whole country : and many are still alive whose
heads, now gray or bald, were then covered with
the military cap, and whose arms, now feeble,
were trained to use the musket and the bayonet, in
defence of our lmearths and altars. What would
have been the issue had the passage of the Straits
been effected? Our surviving volunteers will not
feel themselves muich flattered by the answer
which is given the question, by the historian of
our ancient enemy.
It must be confessed that, supposing us fairly
across the Channel, the preparations niade to re-
sist us were not very formidable. Supposing that,
between the Channel and London, there could be
concentrated 50,000 troops of the line, and from
thirty to forty thousand of the army of reserve,
and any conceivable number of volunteers added to
86IAThOGRAPAIC PRINTING ~lU~SS~H~ STEPMO~rHER.
them, the force thus formed would., even in
actual numbers, have fallen short of the French
army that was to cross the Straits. But even
supposing the English force to be numerically
twice or thrice as g1~eat as it was~ what would such
a force avail a~ainst the 150,000 Veterans~ who, in
eighteen months, led by Napoleon, combated and
beat the armies of entire Europe, at Austerlitz, at
lena, and at Friedland; veterans, apparently equal
to the English in courage, certainly more skilled
and practised in warfare, and four or five times
more numerous The land force of England,
then, was, in reality, very insufficient; and her
chief protection was the ocean still. In any event,
whatever might be the final result, the conduct of
the English government was already signally pun-
ished, by the general agitation of all ranks of the
peol)le, by the enforced ~vithdrawal of the working
classes from their labor, the merchants from their
business, and the nobility and gentry from their lei-
sure and their pastimes. The duration of such an
agitation for any considerable period would in
itself be a great calamity, and might convulse the
social system.
But neither then, nor afterwards, was the bloody
issue tried. The destruction of Napoleons naval
resources deranged his plan as originally con-
structed; the new coalition carried his. armies
again into the heart of the continent; and new
obstacles intervened when the design was anew
taken up, of humbling the nation whose persever-
ing enmity had so often snatched from his grasp
the sceptre of universal European sovereignty.
The next volume of the work will possess mag-
nificent materials for history. It will describe the
last steps in Napoleons rise to the imperial throne.
It will relate what happened on the bloody field
of Austerlitz, and upon the Spanish seas off Cape
Trafalgar.
LITHOGRAPHIC PRINTING PREssHitherto all
attempts to apply to lithography the principle of
machinery, introduced in typographic printing
about twenty years ago, have been unsuccessful,
as it was found impossible to obtain by a machine-
press the same precision and regularity of pressure
as by the common hand-press. M. Nicolle has
not only made a machine so perfect as to give
impressions as good as those obtained by hand ;
he has gone further, for the impressions thrown off
by his machine are superior to those obtained by
the ordinary process now in use, whilst in point of
rapidity the improvement is so great as to be almost
incredible. By the common lithographic process,
not more than from 200 to 250 good impressions
of designs, or about 1000 copies of lithographic
writing can lie obtained in twelve hours; by this
new machine, which is also worked by hand, as
many as 2000 of the former and 20,000 of the
latter can be obtained within the same period of
time. The machine occupies but a small space,
the ink-rollers are so arranged that the supply as
they pass over the stone is regularly distributed,
the paper is laid upon the stone by the machinery,
and, when printed, thrown off without having any
person to lay on and take off, and thus the expense
of working is reduced at the same time that the
products are so greatly multiplied. The most
extraordinary part of the machine, however, is
that which provides for the wetting of the stone
for each impression. By the ordinary system,
the printer is compelled after every impression to
moisten the stone with a wet sponge. This is an
operation that requires great care, but which, not-
Wirhstauditmg, gradually affects the drawing, and
before a thousand copies are taken off the delicacy
of the outlines is almost destroyed. M. Nicolle
has irnagirted a means of Wetting the tone, which,
to use a French expression, tient au mnerveil-
leux. With a force-pump of his own invention,
and by three or four strokes of the piston, lie ex-
tracts the moisture from the atmosphere, and
throws it upon the stone in the form of fine dew,
so that the application of the hand is avoided, and
there is great economy of time. This pump is
fixed over the stone, and the piston is rapidly
worked by the machine. When we were present,
this apparatus was not quite completed, and was
not, therefore, attached to the machine; but we
saw the pump at work by the hand, and could
have no reasonable doubt of its perfect success
xvhen affixed to the machinery. The air of the
printing-room would necessarily soon lose its
moisture by the repeated application of the ex-
hausting process ; but the moisture may easily be
kept up by the simple use of a small charcoal stove
and an evaporating dish filled with water. M.
Nicolle has patents in France and in England for
his invention.Athena3um.
THE STEPMOTHER.
ST DR. 3OHN S. M CASE.
THEY tell me I am motherless! they say my
mother died
When I was but an infant child, and that I sobbed
and cried.
They tell me too, that she who sets me often on
her knee,
Is not my motheryet she is a mother kind to me.
Her face is very saintly calm, her eye is very
mild
She kisses me full oft, and says, I am her pretty
child!
And often, when she thinks I sleep, her soft hand
pale and fair,
Is laid upon my infant brow, and then she breathes
a prayer.
When sickness oer my frame has spent its very
weakening powers,
She pulls for me, and brings them in, springs
earliest, sweetest flowers
And when my racking fevers rise, and soothing
draughts Id sip,
She gently raises up my head, and cools my
parching lip.
And when she sees that slumbers veil is gather-
ing oer my eye,
She pats roy cheek, and sings to me the soothing
lullaby.
And 0! I dream so sweetly then, of angels visits
here,
And wake and find it truefor she, sweet one, is
hovering near.
And when I get my little books, she teaches me to
spell,
Till words so difficult to call I learn so very well
And then she sweetly kisses me, and smooths each
straggling curl;
And makes me love her when she says, You are
my own sweet girl.
Mother, I love her! from thy home mid heavens
eternal rest, 88 POETRYJEWS.
Where tears of anguish never fall, nor sorrows
heave the breast,
I know thou it smile to see thy child bath found a
mothers love,
In one whose dove-like spirit shall mingle with
thine above.
THE two pieces which follow are translations of
the same original. For ourselves we prefer the
first, which was one of a series of a similar kind,
which appeared a few years since in Blaekwood.
The second we picked up accidentally the other
day; and we insert the two now, side by side, as
specimens of the working of different minds over
the same subject. They are from the German, by
SchillerEn. CHRIs. WORLD.
THE LONGING.
From out this dim and gloomy hollow,
Where hang the cold clouds heavily,
Could I but gain the clue to follow,
How blessed would the journey be
Aloft I see a fair dominion,
Through time and change all vernal still:
But where the power, and what the pinion,
To gain the ever-blooming bill l
Afar I bear the music ringing,
The lulling sounds of heaven repose,
And the light gales are dwnward bringing
The sweets of f!owers the mountain knows.
I see the fruit all golden glowing,
Beckon the glossy leaves between;
And oer the blooms that there are blo~ving,
Nor blight, nor winters wrath bath been.
To suns that shine forever yonder,
Oer fields that fade not, sweet to flee;
The very winds that there may wander,
How healing must their breathing be!
But lo! between us rolls a river,
A death in every billow raves;
I feel the soul within me shiver,
To gaze upon the gloomy waves.
A rocking boat mine eyes discover,
But, woe is me! the pilot fails!
In, boldly in! undaunted rover!
And trust the life that swells the sails.
Thou most believe, and thou must venture,
In fearless faith thy safety dwells:
By miracles, alone, incH enter
The glorious land of miracles!
YEARNING FOR WONDERLAND.
Ah! that I could wing my way
Through earths valleydeep and dreary
Ah! that I could float all day,
Pinions never tired or weary,
Oer the everlasting hills,
And the ever gushing rills,
Where come blight and sorrow never,
Ever green and youthful ever!
Where heavens harmonies resound,
Holy Peace forever singing;
Where light Zephyr sports around,
Odors from the flower-buds wringing;
Through the trees dark foliage dancing
Oer the fruit all golden glancing
By no wintry blast aifrighted
Kissing the soft flowers delighted:
Flowers that never lose the sun;
Never close the laughing eye;
With existence never done;
Know not what it is to die!
Woe is me! what rolls between l
T is a rapid river rushing
T is the stream of death, I ween,
Wildly tossing, hoarsely gushing;
While my very heart-strings quiver
At the roar of that dread river!
But I see a little boat
The rough waters gently riding
How can she so fearless float l
For I see no pilot guiding.
Courage !on! there s no retreating;
Sails are spread in friendly greeting.
On, then, on in love we trust!
The white-armed sails a message bear:
There are wonders everywhere:
The wondrous faith wherein you stand
Must bear you to the Wonderland !
Juws.Last month, was held, at Frankfurt, a
congress of Rabbinscomposed of seventy-seven
members, representing nearly all the great Hebrew
communities of Germanyfor the purpose of agree-
ing upon the expurgation from the Judaic worship
of those cerernonials and customs which are no
longer in harmony with the spirit and manners of
the age. We mention the meeting, both as im-
portant in itselfan example to other communities
than those of the Jewsand that we may have the
pleasure of recording the progress of religious tol-
erance, as exhibited in the enlightened courtesy
and respect paid to the members of the congress,
in one of the strongholds of the ancient prejudice
against the Hebrew. The Singing Association,
composed entirely of Christians, gave a musical
festival in their honor, in the garden of their hotel:
most of the senators, and a great number of the
magistrates and other functionaries, took part in the
banquet offered to the Rabbins by the consistory:
and the directory of the Grand Theatre produced,
for the occasion, Lessings Nat/nan tine Wiseplac-
ing their best boxes at the disposition of the con-
gress.
From Prague, we hear of the death, at the age
of seventy-seven, of the Hebrew merchant, Maurice
Zedekauera man whose title to a record in pages
like ours, consists, not in the princely fortune which
was the work of his own honorable toil, but in the
noble use which he made of it. Fifty years ago,
M. Zedekauer came, penniless, to Prague; and be
has left behind him seven millions of florins700,-
000/. In his lifetime, he devoted the larger part
of his immense revenues to the encouragement of
science, art and national industry, and to the re-
lief of the indigent, without distinction of religion
or race; and, by his will, be has bequeathed three
million of florins300,OOOl.amongst the benevo-
lent institutions of all the principal cities of Bohe-
mia. He was followed to the cemetery of his
natiota, by men of all ranks and beliefsthe poor,
of coursethe civil and military authorities of the
capitalall its distinguished menand, it is very
pleasant to add, many clergymen of various Chris-
tian sects. Everywhere, the spirit is passing into
dishonor, which would once have spit upon the
Jewish gabardine, or trampled on the grave of a
man like this.THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER VIII.
Her painful interview with Fanny Jeff kins, and
the sad and strange history which that poor and
unhappy girl had told her, hung like a dark
cloud over the mind of Agnes Lawford, as the
next morning she journeyed towards her new
home. The pain of parting from her mother,
and leaving her own home forever, was mingled
with sympathy for her poor humblefriend, we
were going to say, and friend it shall he, for
Agnes was never more her friend than at this
moment. The belief that Fanny had really, like
the repentant prodigal, gone to her father, was
ihe one cheering ray that brightened the otherwise
dark snbject. That voice of agony pleading with
her, Be a friend to my child, and keep my secret
from all the world ! rung in her cars and in her
heart; and determining with herself to wait pa-
tiently, and see what circumstances might bring
forward, she prayed earnestly, though wordlessly,
for help from God, and ability to do that which
was best, whatever the duty might be. In this
spirit she journeyed on to Leicester, where her
uncles carriage met her, together with that very
Mrs. Sykes, of whom poor Fanny Jeff kins had
told her. Mrs. Sykes informed her, that her lady
was gone out that morning, to make calls with
Miss Ada, who was going from home in a day or
two on a long visit, and therefore she was sent to
meet her. It did not seem a very cordial welcom-
ing of her among them, Agnes thought, and the
thought depressed her.
And now, while with a dejected and anxious
heart, poor Agnes is making the last ten miles of
her journey, let us say a few words to the reader
on the exact state of the family, which, at this
moment, we understand better than lie does.
The father had been now for some years a gouty
invalid, who rarely left the house. His sister
Colville fancied that she saw in him traces of an
impaired intellect; but in that she was mistaken.
It is true, however, that the more active manage-
ment of his affairs had now been, for some time,
in the hands of his eldest son, that Tom Lawford,
of whom we have heard something already: still
that argued nothing against the sound state of his
mind, however infirm his health might be. his
sister Colville, who, since the death of her hus-
band, the learned archdeacon, and of his wife,
had resided with him, had taken upon herself the
whole internal domestic management, as was sure
to be the ease wherever she came. Many infirmi-
ties, however, he had notwithstanding, which
made him willing to yield up the reins of govern-
ment to any one capable of managing them. Poor
man, he required now also much and constant per-
sonal attention, and that of a kind which his valet
could not give. As he had grown older, he had
become much fonder, not of reading, but of listen-
ing to hooks; he extremely disliked being left
alone; he wished always to have some one with
him, his daughter Ada, or Mrs. Colville; but they
had no time to spare: and so he fretted and grew
peevish, and was a trouble to himself and those
about him. And thus his family, who had their
own pleasures, and their own occupations, were
too busy to have any time for him, and were will-
ing enough to escape from his irritability, and fre-
quent ill-humor.
Mr. Lawford now, as in his younger years he
had always done, considered his sister Colville the
cleverest of women. Right glad was he therefore,
after the death of his wife, that she should take up
her abode with him, and thus be the most desira-
ble chaperon in the world for his, at that time, two
unmarried daughters. All that sister Camilla
had done in former years for poor Adolphus,
who now was dead and gone, without the world
knowing much of his deficiencies, remained in his
mind as a debt which the whole family owed to
her. She had been a mother to Adolphus; and
now, it was with no little gratification that he
heard her speak of herself as the mother of his
children. As a mother, she had already been
looking out in the world for suitable settlements
and alliances for them.
The Lawfords, however, were not alone the
objects of the diplomatic ladys ambition; the Col-
villes were so likewise: for if she was a Lawford
by birth, she had become a Colville by marriage
and though she had no children of her own, the
large f mily of younger hrothers and sisters of her
husband had, ever since her marriage, been objects
of her care. All had, one after another, been well
settled and well disposed of long ago,all, except-
ing the youngest of the family, Sam, who had
been brought up to the church, and had now been
his fathers curate for some years. The squire,
too, had a son, his second son, Edward, who was
destined to the church from his infancy, the
appointed future rector of La~vford, when he
should have taken orders, and death should have
removed the present rector, now well advanced in
years. Nobody but the really clever widow of
Archdeacon Colville would have known how to
manage all points so as to make every one a gainer
in this family game at chess.
Nothing, however, was more easy to her than
this. I-Icr own brother-in-law, Sam, the present.
curate of Lawford, should marry her eldest niece~
Mildred, and thus, receiving the living as a part
of his wifes fortune, two persons were at once
provided for. Mildred and Sam Colville had been
brought up, as it were, together; the only wonder
was that anybody should think of anything else but;
their marriage. Mrs. Colville had always prided
herself on the success of all her schemes; there-
fore nothing in this world seemed to her more
natural than that her dear old father-in-law should
quietly drop off, just at the right moment for the
young people to have a home ready to receive
them. Mildred became Mrs. Sam Colville, and a.
little marriage tour of two months, sufficed to put
the rectory-house in good order for them.
What is to become of Edward I asked his
father, when Aunt Colville first proposed to him the
marriage between Mildred and her brother-in-law;.
dont let us have another poor Adolphus in the-
family.
But the warning was hardly needful. Aunt
Colville had managed all that. Years before,.
while Edward was but a boy, she knew that his.
inclinations turned rather to the army than the
church; and when Edward, with the quick eyes.
of youth, saw a lover-like intimacy springing up
between the hall and the rectory, as it had done mn
the days of the last generation, he opened his
heart fully and freely to his aunt, and besought her
influence with his father that his destination in life-
might be changed.
The omnipotent Aunt Colville managed all ac-
cording to his wishes, and the young soldier em-
barked with his captains commission for the East
Indies, feeling unbounded gratitude to his aunt,~
and evincing its continuance by sending to her~
89THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER.
Delhi scarfs and Indian toys. His career so far
had been a brilliant one; and his aunts favorite
phrase was, that he had engrafted the laurels of
military glory upon the old family tree.
Edward, from his boyhood, had been much
attached to his young sister Ada, to whom he now
wrote of his splendid life in the East, and never
ended without saying, that should her course of
true love not run smooth, or should she find no one
to her mind, she must come out to him. It was a
favorite joke of Adas, that she would go to India
to her brother; but it was only a joke neither
she nor her Aunt Colville had any ideas of anything
but an English husband in an English home.
Ada was the pride of her annts heart; and, from
the first moment of her becoming the head of her
brothers household, she resolved that Ada should
marry well. She looked round among the county
gentry for a suitable husband for her, and none
seemed so desirable or so suitable as the one whom
destiny, it was believed, had appointed for her.
This was their neighbor, Mr. Latimer, of the
Hays, a gentleman of large independent fortune,
who, having now for several years been Ins own
master, had established for himself one of the finest
and most unexceptionable of characters. Mr.
Latimer, was one who, both for his worth and his
wealth, was universally courted. Any one would
have been proud of his alliance; many had striven
for it, but he seemed hard to please: he required
much, very much in a wife; and, quite aware of
his own desirableness to some half-dozen at least
unmarried young ladies, still preserved his own
unspoiled sincerity of character, and would neither
be wooed, nor flattered, nor coquetted into coin-
pliance. The world said that he required so much
un a wife that he never would be suited, nay, he
~began almost to think so himself. Aunt Colville,
Ihowever, was not going to be foiled. She had
made up her mind that her niece should, in the
end, accomplish that which no one else could.
She began even to feel sure of success. People
~began to congratulate her on the conquest which her
niece bad made; and she began, even in spite of
her usual tact and prudence, to speak as if it were
as good as settled, when, all at once to the sur-
prise of the world, and the unspeakable chagrin of
Aunt Colville, l\lr. Latimer announced his intention
of spending two years on his West Indian pro-
perty. It was very strange, she thou~ht! Two
years was so long a period of a lovers life. In
two years Ada might be married and gone forever!
Could it be possible, after all, that he had no
serious thoughts of heror xvas this a ruse on his
part to bring the young beauty to terms. She
I had coquetted with others-she had shown con-
siderable frivolity of characterher anxious aunt
had often been displeased and annoyed at her way-
wardness and petulance in his presence. Had,
then, the two years absence anything to do with
this? was it intended to bring her to her senses,
or to wean him of a passion which, perhaps, he
thought hopeless? Mrs. Colville tried the question
in all ways; she redoubled her own attentions to
him; talked seriously to Ada; besought of her not
to let such a lover escape; spoke of the scandal in
the neighborhood, of the triumph of this and that
lady; and remembered, with secret vexation, how,
in the secure pride of her heart, she had been so
unwise as to speak of the connexion as certain.
What if he had heard of this, and was now desert-
ing the field to prove himself free, and leave the
lady a free course with her other lovers? Never
had Aunt Colville been in such a dilemma before.
That no enemy, however, might triumph, she
maintained, as much as possible, the old appear-
ance of things,spoke of dear Mr. Latimers
departure, as a public calamity; begged him to
spend all the time he could possibly spare with
them, and took care that he should not lack the
opportunity of declaring himself to Ada if such
were his wish. It looked exceedingly well that
Mr. Latimer spent his last evening at Lawford.
Ada was perfectly charming, mild, and gentle, and
the very ideal of what Latimers wife ought to be;
but for all that, what did he say at parting? that
he had no expectation of finding her Miss Lauford
on his return. And thus he left the house, and
the next day left England, without declaring his
passion, or endeavoring to secure her affections to
himself in any way.
Mrs. Colville was exceedingly angry, but she
said not a single word either of her anger or her
chagrin to Ada; that she kept for her own breast
and for Mrs. Sam Colville, who, since her mar-
riage, had risen very high in her aunts opinion.
Ada was too proud, whatever her feelings might
be, to express them to any living soul. To the
world, her aunt spoke of Mr. Latimer as of the
dear friend of the family, as of one who had quite a
fraternal regard for all the young people; but
for Ada she now began to look out for a new con-
nexion in the gay world of London, to which now,
for the first time, they went during the season.
But a great change seemed to have come over the
young beauty. It was the working of a deep,
earnest love, her aunt imagined ; and therefore,
after having again unsuccessfully schemed and
planned, she thought it wisest to leave things to
themselves, and, in so doing, she returned to her
former wishes regarding Latimer. She. was con-
vinced that he would not marry whilst abroad;
and, in the mean time, the bent which Adas mind
seemed to have taken would only prepare her more
completely to fascinate him on his return. All
would be well, she doubted not, in the end ; hut
as diplomacy was her passion, she could not help
taking some steps to facilitate that end, and those
steps were remarkably easy ones. Mr. Latimer s
only sister, to whom he was greatly attached, and
some few years older than himself, had been
married now several years to a Mr. Acton, a ne-
phew of the good old dean, where poor Fanny
Jeffkins had first lived in service. Mr. Latimer
had spoken much and warmly of his sister to Ada;
they met for the first time, since Ada was a mere
child, at that large party at the deanery, for which
poor Fanny Jeffkins had dressed Ada in her pink
dress and tiara of pearls. Both ladies were much
pleased with each other. Fortune favored Aunt
Colvilles schemes so far, that Mr. Acton pur-
chased a small estate in an adjoining county.
where he built a cottage ornee, and the family
came to reside within the last six months. Like
Mrs. Colville, Mrs. Acton perhaps thought that
Ada would be a suitable wife for her brother : she
in the first place had appeared charmed by her
beauty, and nearer acquaintance seemed not to have
lessened the effect. Mrs. Colville considered the
circumstance of her inviting Ada to her house for
a long and intimate visit, to be a sure proof that
she was tacitly forwarding the same object.
By the time, therefore, when Agnes came to
reside at her uncles, Aunt Colville had returned to
her old opinions, and regarded Ada unquestionably
as the future Mrs. Latimer. She began to take
90 THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. 91
he most lively interest again in the Hays, and
only regretted that she had not obtained a com-
mission from its master of general oversight dur-
in g his absence. The only confidant in all her
schemes and plansnot even excepting Ada her-
self, for to her sire hinted nothingwas Mrs. Sam.
Mrs. Sam and she spoke between themselves of
Adas marriage, as of a settled thing, and never
did they pass the gates of the Hays, or come even
within sight of its chimneys, without feeling as if
Ada were already mistress there.
Perhaps, however, the only person, in the
whole circle of her acquaintance, of whom Mrs.
Colvilie stood at all in awe, was this same Mr.
Latimer. She had never ventured to scheme and
speculate so boldly and so confidently when he
was ar ongst them. There was a decisiou ahout
him, a coolness, a m. stery of him~eif, over which,
when present, she fel that she had no power.
And thus, now that he was away, even in spite
f his self-possession at parting, she felt more
hopeful and certain, but at the same time more
prudent than ever. Ada, during his absence, had
refused several offersof this her aunt had in-
formed Mrs. Acton; a great change, too, had
ome over her; she was no longer a coquette; she
was quieter, graver, sadder, perhaps, but cer-
tainly not less lovely than when he left. It was
vident, Mrs. Colville thought, that Ada was re-
serving herself for his return, and she was sat-
isfied.
In this state of affairs came the news of Mr.
Frank Lawfords death in London. Little as had
been the intercourse between these two branches
of the family, there had been growing secretly, in
the depths of the elder Mr. Lawfords heart, a
yearning sentiment of good will and pity towards
his younger, outcast brother. In the solitude of
his sleepless nights he had thought upon him
with tenderness; a sentiment that came, he knew
not how, of charity and forbearance, prepared him
for deeds of kindness. When, therefore, the news
came of his brothers sudden death, he stood as it
were self-arraigned and condemned for severity
and ne,lect. And oh! how hitter is the sense
that the time for kindness is gone by forever;
that the heart is forever cold which one would
now so fain have w rmed and cheered with the
kindly flame of our affection. Bitter were the
cars which Mr. Lawford shed, and it was with
the utmost sincerity that he besought the bereaved
mernoers of his brothers family to accept of his
aid and his good will.
Torn went to the funeral, and brought back
such tidings of their hitherto overlooked relatives
as only the more strengthened his fathers inclina.
tions. It was a very touching, though a very
simple letter, which Agnes in the dark hour of
bereavement had written to her uncle; but it had
spoken eloquently to his heart.
We will see what we can do for them,
Aunt Colville had said ; we will see if we can-
not do something for this poor girl, who really
has written such a very proper and affecting
letter.
She said this, at first, as the thought of the
moment, rather to pacify her brother, than any-
thing else; but on after consideration, and espe-
cially after Tom had returned home, and brought
word that this cousin Agnes, whose grief for her
fathers death seemed so deep, was a quiet, sensi-
ble girl, but not at all handsome, the disposition to
serve her seemed to grow amazingly.
She can read to my brother, and amuse him;
she must have been used to a life of hardship, and
living here will be quite an advantageous change
to her, thought she to herself.
Mr. Lawford, who, like his sister, calculated
certainly upon Adas marriage, conceived, as she
had already done, tire idea of his niece supplying
to him tire l)lace of a daughter, and then,
thought he, there is this advantage in her over
my daughter, sire will not be leaving me to get
married. Ada has so many acquaintances, and is
always goio~ out. I am never sure of her for a
day; nay, not even for an hour. Poor Franks
daughter will he very different; she will have no
acquaintance but us, and we will make her happy
amongst us.
We will find her a home amongst us, said
also Mrs. Sam Colville; if she do not suit one
she may suit another. She can have had no
brighter prospects in life than we can offer her: it
was such a thing of my uncle leaving no better
provision for Iris children !
Poor man ! said Aunt Colville, with a sigh,
he was always improvident; ran counter to all
our wishes; and this is no more than any of us
expected. However, as my dear archdeacon used
to say, we must all have charity one with
another; and now poor Frank is dead and gone,
let his weaknesses and his errors die with him.
Amen ! said Mrs. Sam.
And, continued Aunt Colville, I see no
objection at all to having this Agnes with us: my
brother is always fretful when Ada goes out; he
likes to have young people about him; and I have
often thought him a little unreasonable towards
Ada, for a girl like her is naturally fond of
society; and that was one reason why I was so
willing for her to go to Mrs. Actons: and there-
fore, if my brother takes to Franks daughter, and
she turn out tractable and useful, nothing can be
better; and she s Irot likely to marry; and as she
is not handsome, and has no fortune, there will be
no flirting and nonsense of that kind.
There is no danger of Tom, said Mrs. Sam,
with a very self-satisfying confidence.
And then, if she be well educated, as I dare
say she is, continued Aunt Colville, in course
of time, if anything should happen to my poor bro~
ther, she can t-ke the management of your little
ones. Emily will want a governess in a few
yearsor Mrs. Acton might take her; for when
Ada is married, said she, with a peculiar look,
one may reckon the Actons as a part of cur own
family.
Such were the designs of these two ladies, arid
such were their sentinrents towards our poor A g-
nes: her uncles, if not unmingled with selfish-
ness, were certainly much kinder. his heart
yearned towards her; and he meant, in showing
good-will towards her, to satisfy his soul, if
possible, as regarded her father. The two in tire
family who seemed most indifferent with regard to
her coming, who Ileither said nor acted anything,
were Ada and her brother Tum. Ada, it might
be supposed, was so much occupied with the now
approaching return of Mr. Latimer, and with the
visit she was about to pay to his sister, as to have
no thoughts to spare for any less interesting sub-
ject. Besides, she was by no means what might
be called a transparent characterAda kept many
of her thoughts arid feelings to herself. Aunt
Colville said, that she had enough, poor girl, to
think of; and she did not at all wonder at herTHE AtITHOR S DAUGHTER.
wish, to set off directly to Mrs. Actons. As for
Tom, nobody troubl.ed themselves about him: he
went and came, and thought his own thoughts, and
acted just as he pleased, wi~hout anybody wonder-
ing at anything he did.
CHAPTER IX.
I am now at Lawford, wrote Agnes to her
mother, within a week of her arrival there; at
the home of my fathers youth. Ah! so ften as
I have heard him describe this place! To me it
was as familiar as if I had here a prei~xistence
the trees, the brook, the very outline of the distant
landscape. How differently do the good people
here regard these things to what I do ! To m
they are sanctified by the holy spirit of love and
death. My dear, dear father! and this was the
place where he was born; where be passed the
bright days of his childhood, and that happy youth,
of which he retained such delightful remembrance.
Thank God that his youth was happy!
On Sunday, we were at church. I fancied to
myself the corner of the pew where my father
sat, when he alone of all the family went there;
and when he sat and watched the rectors eldest
daughter, sitting among her young brothers and
sisters, and casting now and then, from above her
prayer-book, sly glances at her young lover! And
just above the pew is the marble tablet to the
memory of his mother. You know not with what
a thrill I read of her sudden death, on her fifty-
seventh birth-day; it seemed to me as if those two
awful days were blended in one : I lived over
again their whole agony, and wept bitterly. A
beautiful white marble urn, exquisitely designed
and executed, stands in the churchyard, between
two dark well-grown cypresses, in memory of her.
The effect is extremely good. Were I rich, I
would place here a monument to my father ;but
he needs none! Love has enshrined him in our
hearts; and good works, and noble sentiments, in
the hearts of thousands besides!
The weather, since I came, has been fine for
the season ; and, under a mild but leaden Decem-
ber sky, I walked out one morning to explore the
park and the immediate nei~hborhood. The fallen
but undecayed leaves, and sombre but mild color-
ing of the landscape, accorded well with my feel-
ings. I was quite alone, and enjoyed my ramble
greatly. I found the brook, the Merley brook,
where my father used to fish; it runs along the
bottom of the park, through a succession of wild
little dingles, which must be beautiful in spring
and summer. It must have been here that my
father lay and read in that old copy of Homer, in
which, even to the last, he looked with such de-
light. I tried to find that bend of the brook where
the old willow-tree grew, of which he spoke so
often ; but the brook seemed to have so many
bends, and all the willows were so old and pictur-
esque, that I could not tell which might have been
predininently his favorite. Here, too, must be
that copse, all covered with moss, and bordered
with primroses and violets, which he has described
in his Poet, as being the favorite resort of Ver-
non in spring-time; for here is the rookery, and
Vernon lay among the pnimroses watching the
rooks, as you remember, with his Greek Homer in
his hand.
I cannot tell you the effect which these old
haunts produce on my mind: the spirit of these
quiet, sylvan scenes, breathes in so much that my
father has written, and it makes inc indescribably
sad; sad, when I think how he, who, of all mer
loved nature so truly, and was so attached to this
place, was an outcast from it. I think of the re-
freshment it would have been, to have come here
and gathered again these primroses by the rivers
brim; and those to whom they belong, have let
them bloom and die ye r after year, and never
have drawn from them a holy, or a refreshing
sentiment. Poor Jeff kins, to he, who used to
bring my father the first prin~fiowers; who
would walk so many miles to gath~.r him the early
violets; how sad and desolating a pk cc has Law-
ford been to him! God only knows why such
things are allowed to he! Pu r Fanny, too!
The strange and melancholy spirit of our inter-
view saddened my parting with you. My journey
here was a gloomy one. My thoughts were en-
tirely my own; for a very taciturn and bulky
country couple, who were my fellow-travellers,
interrupted them by not a single remark. My
parting from you, the sense that I had no longer a
home, and poor Fannys unhappy fate, lay like
dark and brooding clouds upon my heart; the
only little cheering beam was, th t the poor for-
lorn, and yet, I trust, not God-abandoned prodigal,
would that night be restored to her father. had
you not left London so soon after me, you proba-
bly would have seen him.
The next day. Your letter, which this mo-
men t has arrived, distresses and alarms me. Jeff-
kins, you say, has not seen his daughter! Oh,
God forbid that she has deceived us; or that she
has again fallen into evil hands! Poor Jeff kins!
his attention to you has indeed affected me. How
good, how thoughtful, how really delicate is his
conduct. Let no one talk of the bad hearts of the
poor! Ah, dearest mother, is it not true, that the
gratitude of these poor people has often left u
mourning l A dark and sad mystery involves
Fannys conduct; and my heart bleeds for the
anguish, and agonizing uncert inty, which her
father must experience. Here, as yet, her name
has never been mentioned. You did well not to
speak of the strange secret confided to me. It is
safe, too, in my keeping; and God, if he design
me for an agent of good toward that unhappy de-
serted child, will make all known to me at the
right time. As yet, however, one part of poor
Fannys prophecy seems far from being fulfilled.
There is a sort of coldness and distance between
my cousin Torn and me. I know why, on my
part. I cannot disconnect him, in my mind, from
that poor unhappy girl; and feel, as it were, un-
pleasantly conscious, in his presence, of the sad
secret of which I am the depository. You ask
about my cousin Ada. She left home, on a visit
of some weeks, the third day after my arrival, and
that without our having advanced towards any
intimacy. Ada seems to me to be rather a para-
dox, a mixture of openness, or perhaps impulse,
and decided reserve. She says occasionally
abruptly kind things, for which one is not pre-
pared, which give the idea that the impulses of her
nature are good and kind ; but pride, or reserve,
or perhaps timidity, make her general conduct
cold, and to me repulsive. Our bedrooms adjoin,
divided only by a dressing-room which opens to
both, but which she keeps locked. She allowed
her maid to pay me all little civilities. I am not
an exacting person I would have been thankful.
at that time, for but one kind word, or act. As it
was, I sat in my solitary bed-room, and wept. Do
not think me petulant, or unreasonable; but my
92TIlE A1~TI1OR S DAUGhTER.
heart, for that first night, was desolate, and felt
how great had been its bereavement.
The family consider Ada very clever. My
A ant Colville says that she is a true genius, aud
has great intellectual powers. I doubt itat
least as far as original talent goes. Handsome,
however, she is unquestionablynay, beautiful.
She has a fine, oval, Rutherford face, with those
peculiar large dove-like eyes, which my father
called the family-eves, and which I now see are
those of dear little Harry ud here I must put in
a parenthesis. I have had a letter from those dear
boysa kind beautiful letter. Arthur says that
pool Harry is getting up his spirits famously, and
has even had a little fl~ht on his own account.
Poor Harry! I cannot tell you how I was haunt-
ed by the sad expressiou of that d ar childs face
as he sat keeping back his tears, while they
waited for the coach. Arthur is so handsome
and manly, and so capable of defending himself
but God, and a good brother help poor Harry
with his loving, gentle spirit, that never was
meant for a tough warfare with hardship and un-
kindness! So much for a little thought, by way of
parenthesisI now return to my fair cousin Ada.
Ada is the darling of the family, in part from being
the youngest, in part also from her being so hand-
ome, and from their having the idea of her great
abilities. My Aunt Colville says very much to me
about Adas powers of mind, and fine character;
so also does Mrs. Sam; but as Ada herself, dur-
ing the short time we were together, rather
shunned than courted intimacy with me, and did
not betray any great originality of mind in any
way, I cannot speak from my own knowledge.
I hear a great deal said of a Mr. Latimer of
the Hays, vho is expected in the spring from the
West Indies. I suspect him be the fiance of
Ada; it is with his sister tha sh is now visiting.
According to report Mr. Latimer is the very sum-
mit of perfection; but when I consider their notions
of perfection, which appear to he personified in
Archdeacon Colville, I expectpardon my heresy
nothing more remarkable than good looks
wealth, which I know he hasand self-possession
perhaps self-esteem.
You ask of my uncle, a d of my aunt Gel-
ville. Nothing could be kinder than my uncles
reception of me. I was taken into his rooma
sort of inner library, -here he spends most of his
time. He said very littlebut words were not
needed he kissed melooked into my face, and
wept. I wept tooand that abundantly, for my
heart indeed was full; and I saw so plainly in my
uncle a strong resemblance to my fatherthat
peculiar cut of counten nec, which made the last
generation of the Lawfords so handsome. It was
my fathers face, only much older and without that
xpression of superior intellect which gave such a
marked character to the face. My uncle wept as
he sl)oke of my fathers death, and lamented that
politics and other things had separated them.
His heart I am sure is kindly interested in me;
and with him, in his little library, I feel at home.
He is a great invalid, and suffers much from the
gout and other maladies. In his intervals of ease
I read to him. his own children, he told me, do
not like reading aloud, nor will they read what he
vants. I read to him the newspaper daily. It
comes in at breakfast, which is very late; and as
ye are then all together, and mostly alone, I read it
aloud, and my Aunt Colville geucrally stays also to
Lear i . If my uncle e~e too ill to breakfast with
the family, I would take it into his chamber, when
his chocolate went in, and read it there: but as
yet they say he is in unusual health. We read
novels, of which he is very fond, and works of
divinity; and he pays inc the compliment of liking
my readingso did my dear father. Oh, my uncle
knows not how often I have tried to cheat my
poor heart into the belief, that I was again in
papas library reading to him! They have none
of papas works here, nor do I believe that they
have, any of them, read a si~gle page of his
writing. They all hold extreme opinions in reli-
gion and politics ; and no wonder, when Archdeacon
Colville is their apostle. his works are here:
thirteen volumes, bound in purple morocco, richly
gilt. I was readin0 one of them one day, when
my Aunt Colville came in; she seemed greatly
pleasedthe only time I have ever seen her appear
cordially satisfied with me. Her veneration for
the archdeacon is extreme; and there are, after
all, points of view from which her character is far
from unamiable. To me, however, generally
speaking, she is cold and harsh: she wishes me to
devote myself to my uncle; but I fear that decided
kindness towards me on his part will displease her.
So also at the rectoryshe wishes me to amuse
the children, and to gain their affection; but were
I, in mistake, to gain that of their mother, she
would hardly forgive me. I must be subservient,
humble, and useful to every oneI must give love
and devotion, but I must look for none in return.
Aunt Colville has a great deal of family pride; but
the family consist only of herself, and her elder
brother, and his descendants: we, if we would
please her, must minister to these; we must have
no little aspmrmgs on our own account; what little
light we have, we must contribute to the family
dory; we mast sink ourselves to exalt themand
if we will do this, my Aunt Colville will be as
surely our friends and patrons, as ever she was to
poor Adolphus. But I must now conclude: I
have yet to write to the dear boys. I treasure up
every droll anecdote, every conundrum, every
amusing trait of character for them, that my letter
may amuse them.
Ihank God that you are so cheerful, and that
you are surrounded by so much love, and so much
repose! Ah, I once thought that you and I should
never smile again: but the year goes on; and the
summer, which, in the dark wintry days, seemed
so far oft; will come with its birds, its flowers,
and its sunshine ; and thus it is with our hearts!
May it only please God, that we, whose hearts
are one, may yet form one household; you and I,
and those dear boys! I dare not think of it, but
try to say, in all submission, Thy will, not mine,
be done!
Adieu, write often to your own
AGNEs.
The winter was severe. Christmas came with
its carol singers, in the snowy and frosty even-
ings; the church-bells chimed forth their sweet
psalm-tunes: holly and ivy decorated the hall,
and the rectory; the doles of fuel and beef were
given to the poor; and the country newspaper, as
it always did, made a paragraph about the well-
known, seasonable munificence of the Lawfords of
Lawford. There was a poetical sort of feudal
sentiment about this Christmas at La ford, which
had its charm to Agnes; but still she felt that here
the poor and the rich were separated, spite of sea-
sonable gifts, by a wide gulf, which no sincere
kindly sympathy bridged over. Very different was
93THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER.
all this from those little festivals of human love
and human brotherhood which each successive
Christmas had seen nuder her fathers roof.
I will take you with me this morning, said
Aunt Colville to Agnes, on the day when the doles
were distributed; thinking to impress her with the
munificence of the great branch of the family.
Aunt Colville, enveloped in velvet and fur, sat
in the great carriage, and Agnes took her seat
beside her. She was in a very gracious mood,
and as they drove along, pointed out the grammar
school, and the alms-houses which had been
endowed by the family.
It is a proud thing, aid nut Coiville, to
hs the main branch of an old line of ancestors
the direct family line. 1 believe, has no stain upon
itall its men were men of honor, who served
their God and their king zealously, and unflinch-
ingly; and their women were noted for beauty,
and purity. I am proud of being a Lawford,
said she with dignity ; and though, in the last
generation, we had cause to deplore some things
connected with the family, yet the main branch
has ever retained its upri~,htness.
Agnes felt that a sting was contained in her
aunts words, and perhaps she might have replied,
had they not now reached the village green, where
the church-wardens and other officials were dis-
tributing the squires bounty; and as the great
family coach slowly drove among them, hats were
taken off, and a huaza welcomed them. Women,
with children by the hand, or at the breast, were
carrying away the cuts of beef; and men and big
boys were wheeling away coals in barrows or
hand-carts. Everybody looked eager, but by no
means was there an expression of universal satis-
faction on every f cc. Many were discontented;
they believed that their neighbors were better sup-
plied than themselves; they looked angry and
envious.
Yes, said Aunt Colville, as she sat in the
great family coach, glancing through its plate-
glass windows at the discomitented faces around
her, it is a privilege to belong to the better
classes of society, for there is a natural depravity
and hardness about the poor.
Pardon me, aunt, said Agnes, eager to vin-
dicate the poor as a class, bnt society has always
dealt so hardly by the poor, it has made poverty
and crime synonymous. TIme rich and the poor
are not bound together by deeds of kindness and a
spirit of brotherly consideration and forbearance;
they are separated by severe laws and enactments,
which the rich have made to keep the poor in awe.
Oh, aunt, is it not enough to harden amid sour the
very heart of poverty, when it craves from its fel-
low-man the leave to toil, and that is denied it?
Instead of accusing the poor of natural depravity,
I only wonder at their forbearance and patience.
What can the poor do in such cases but sink into
despair, and out of despair plunge imito crime; and
then, when we have made them criminals, we
drive them farther from us by severe penalties.
We make ourselves their oppre~sorswhat won-
der then if they hate usl
These are dangerous oluiniuns, said Aunt
Colville, impatiently, the opinions of levellers
and democrats. I know what the poor are, and
how impossible it is to reform them. I know a
great deal more about them than you do. It is
hardly worth while arguing the subject, but still I
must say a word or t~vo; for instamice, you say
that the rich do not biiid the poor to them by
deeds of kindness: what is this very scene which
you are witnessing what was it that I did np-
wards of thirty years ago? I established Sunday
and daily schools in this parish. I took care, at
least my excellent father-in-law took care, that
every child should be able to read, and should
know its catechism thoroughly. lie disseminated
tracts; put down public-house , and bowline,
greens, and such places, which are frequented by
the lowest and idlest el ss of characLer~ he ex-
pelled Methodists out of the parish, and estab-
lished among the farmers amid the more respecta-
ble inhabitants, an association for employing none
but such as attended church regularly, and sent
their children to school. But all these efforts
were vain. Vice and imumorality only the more
increased: the use that was made of education
was to read infidel books, and the whole neighbor-
hood was full of poachers and every species of
disreputable characters. It is perfectly absurd to
hear you talking in that romantic ~entimentaI
way, and it only shows your total ignorance of
the subject. I know the pour well, and can
safely testify, that there is something emphati-
cally correct in styling the wealthy the better
classes of society.
It seems to me, returned Agnes, in a tone
whose gentleness was meant to neutralize the
boldness of a dissenting opinion, that the late
rectors well-intentioned but somewhat extreme
efforts at reforming the parish were very much
calculated to produce the effects they did.
Aunt Colville literally turned round, and looked
Agnes in the face; but spite of this, she con-
tinued
Men inclined to Methodismand such maybe
very good men, and very useful members of soci-
etyand men of physical activity, to whom the
bowling-green would have furnished an escape-
valve for their energies, would, under the changes
which the rector introduced, be very likely to be-
come poachers; more especially if they could not
obtain employment without professing religious
opinions, which perhaps they neither understood
nor held.
These are the kind of notions which I sup-
pose my poor brother instilled into your mind,
interrupted Aunt Colville, with a reprimandiug
countenance.
My father was the friend of the poor, said
Agnes, in reply; and this I consider as one of
his greatest honors. Like Jesus Christ, who
was his example, he went among them, and talked
with them, and by the force alone of love, amid the
persuasion of kindness, healed, if mmot their physi-
cal, yet their moral infirmities, which are even
worse. The poor, like the beloved apostle, might
almost literally be said to rest upon his bosom.
I do not admire this way of talking, said
her aunt; and such opinions as you seem to
hold are not seemly in a young lady. You must
remember that you are the mmiece now of Mr.
Laxvford of Lawford; and 1 am sure it would
grieve him and all your friends here, to hear you
expressing any Owenite or Benthamite notions.
What would Mrs. Sam thimik, and the Actons, if
they heard you talking thus? Your poor father,
Agnes, did himself a deal nif mischief by them;
and, though I would not willin,,,ly speak ill of the
dead, yet there are occasions when silence is
criminal, and this I consider to be one of them.
For Heavens sake, interrupted Agnes, with
impetuous emotion, do not say one word abainat
my father. You none of you knew him, none of
you can conceive his goodness and his real great-
9495
THE AUTHOR~ S DAUGHTER.
ness; and let me beseech of yon, said she, turn-
ing to her aunt with imploring eyes, that what-
ever fault you may have to find with me, what-
ever displeasure my poor opinions may cause you,
that you will breathe no reproaches against my
father I
There was something very mild and touching
in the tone in which Agnes spoke ; and in a
softened voice, and laying her hand upon that of
Agnes, Mrs. Colville replied: I wish not xvan-
tonly to hurt your feelings, Agnes; but you ought
to know, that your poor father separated himself
from his family, and cut off his own means of
usefulness, and his own advancement in life, by
abandoning the old hereditary opinions of his fam-
ily, and by adopting others which gentlemen ordi-
narily do not hold; therefore you must consider
how painful, how unpleasant, how revolting it
most be to us to have such opinions broached in
our presence; and especially by one whom we
have placed amongst us, and towards whom we
wish to entertain favorable sentiments. I hope,
therefore, that you will never let Mrs. Sam hear
anything of the kind from your lips !
Agnes made no reply; she bitterly felt her
own dependence. A thousand contradictory emo-
tions agitated her soul: but her heart was too full
for words, and a quiet tear fell from her cheek to
her knee.
Aunt Colville saw the tear, and was touched by
it.
We will drop this subject now, she said;
but when I have leisure and opportunity, I will
relate such instances of depravity which have
come under my own eye, as are really shocking
to think ofthings which have occurred in Law-
fordand Lawford is not nearly so bad as many
other places: but even in Lawford, I say, there
have occurred cases of womeim abandoning their
own children! At Lawford Hall, not so very
Jung since, some wicked, unnatural mother left
her child but a few weeks old! Such things as
these are awful, and enough to bring down the
judgments of Heaven!
How, when, clear aunt, was a child left at
Lawford1 asked Agnes, suddenly roused from
the thoughts immediately connected with herself
to the remembrance of poor Fanny Jeff kins con-
fession.
It is a most unpleasant subject, said her
aunt, I cannot enter upon it now. Not another
word about it now; for I see Mrs. Sam and the
children, and we will take them up; but remem-
ber, not a syllable about these thin0s before Mrs.
Sam !
Time carriage took up Mrs. Sam and the chil-
dren; and Agnes was so absorbed by her aunts
words, and the thoughts which they gave rise to,
that she displeased both ladies by taking no no-
tice of the darling Emily, ~vho was destined
for her future pupil.
Although Aunt Colville had desired that Mrs.
Sam might never hear such heterodox opinions
fall from Agnes lips, it was not long before that
lady herself informed her of them.
It w-s no more, they said, than they might
have expected: but what would the I3arhams, and
the Bridports, and the Actons, and the dean and
his lady say, if they heard such sentiments l
They had the most benevolent desires for her im-
provement; and as her position in the family, for
the present at least, seemed to be that of coin-
panion and reader to her uncle, they would get
him to make her read all the archdeacons works,
and such others also as would give her proper
views of life and society. There was a deal of
good in her, no doubt, they said, and they would
do their duty by her; but it was a great deal bet-
ter, however, that she should not go much into
society with them, and there was a good excuse
for her staying at home, and that was attending to
her uncle.
It is a good thing that my father is so fond of
her, said Mrs. Sam, for, poor thing, spite of
all her accomplishments, and her talents, and her
easy, graceful mannersand one cannot deny her
all thesewhile she holds such opinions, even
if she wanted a situation to-morrow, I could
not give her one. Sam is so fond of catechising,
that he would draw out all her opinions, and quar-
rel with her the first day.
Agnes was set to read the first volume of Arch-
deacon Colvilles Essays on Religious Opinion.
It was a very heavy book; but the old gentleman
felt it his duty, and his sister Colville recom-
mended it, that not only it, but the whole thirteen
volumes of sermons, essays, and treatises must be
gone through from the first page to the last. So
she read, and he listened or dozed; and when he
was tiredand he was very often as tired of
listening as she of readingthe book was laid
down, and they began to talk, which he very soon
had found to be a pleasant way of spending time.
He encouraged her to talk of her parents, of her
brothers, of her former home, and of the people
she knew in London. Her uncle took a great
delight in her society, and missed her when she
was absent; he called her pet names, repaid her
attentions by a kiss, and said that she was his
youngest daughter, and that her very presence
near him soothed his pain and his irritation. Poor
Agnes, she did not easily tire of talking to her
uncle of her home and her family, although she
was ofien inclined to weep when she did so; but
then the old man grew irritable if she wept, and
therefore she soon learned to touch lightly on
painful subjects, for both their sakes; and, after
the warning which her aunt had given her, care-
fully avoided touching on politics or the virtues
of the poor.
Breakfast, which, as we have said, was not
early at Lawford, was taken mostly in the little
library where the old gentleman sat, that he might
enjoy it with his family; and on these occasions
it was, as the reader knows, the duty of Agnes to
read from the morning paper the lighter news and
police reports, deaths, and casualties, of which he
was very fond.
One morning, while thus reading, she came upon
a paragraph which related that considerable ex-
citement was occasioned the day before, on the
breaking up of the ice in the river Lea, by the dis-
covery of the body of a young woman, which ap-
pe~red to have lain there some weeks. The body
was first discovered by some boys, and a remark-
able circumstance had led to its immediate recog-
nition. The father of the young ~voman, who was
by trade a silk-weaver Agnes paused for~
half a moment, and then went on. The father
was walking on the banks of the river at the time,
and joining in the crowd, recognized the body to
be that of his daughter. The fathers distress:
xv:is inconceivable. The girl, it appeared, was of
abandoned character, and had left the house of her
father many months before. No injury, which
could excite suspicion of murder, was found on the 96 THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER.
body, and it was suspected that she had committed
suicide, as so many unfortunate females did. A
small sum of money was found in her pocket, to-
gether with a letter, which, although almost illegi-
ble, appeared to be addressed to her father. She
wore a small locket round her neck, in which was
a lock of dark hair, and a gold ring set with a
small emerald. The name of the girl was Fanny
Jeffkins Agnes said no more, but drop-
ping the paper on her knee, clasped her hands, and
burst into tears.
Jeffkjns ! exclaimed Aunt Colville can it
be that Fanny who lived with Mrs. Sam~ Btit,
bless me, Agnes, said she, looking sternly at her
niece, what is amiss xvith you ?
I was much attached to that poor, unfortunate
girl! said Agnes.
My dear ! exclaimed her uncle.
Not at all to your credit, said Aunt Colville.
I cannot explain to you, said Agnes, the
peculiar circumstances which make her death
affecting to me. You could not understand it;
hut, wretched as she was, and abandoned as the
world believed her, I was much attached to her;
and her father, a man of many virtues and many
sorrows, was a friend of my fathers.
Aunt Colville looked petrified with horror.
Thank Heaven, she said, that there is no
one present! for though Tom was there, she
considered him like no one.
Tom sat with his forehead on his hand, his cup
of coffee untouched before him, and seemed to he
reading from a book which lay open on the table.
Out~vardly he seemed an indifferent auditor of what
passed, but in reality he felt as much agitated as
Agnes herself.
Not exactly a friend of your fathers, my
dear, said her uncle, willing, if possible, to shield
her from her aunts displeasure.
Yes, returned Agnes, firmly, he was so,
and one whom my father respected, and perhaps
even loved. His attachment to my father was
extreme.
And this wretched, abandoned creature, in-
terrupted Aunt Colville, with indignation, who
was hurried to the face of her Maker with all her
unrepented sins on her head, was perhaps a friend
of yours !
In the truest sense of the word, replied Ag-
nes, calmly, and in a voice of deep sorrow, per-
haps she was. I, at least, may say truly, that I
was her friend; and strange as these words may
seem to yoti, they are capable of such explanation
as I believe would satisfy even you.
I want no explanation, returned Aunt Col-
ville. I have said all along that this radicalism,
this sympathy and friendship with the depraved
lower classes, could not possibly lead to good.
I do not at all understand what you can mean
by attachment and friendship for abandoned char-
acters, Agnes, said her uncle, and we must
.have some explanation.
Agnes, without so much as glancing at Tom,
who still maintained his look of cool indifference,
~began, in a voice low with emotion, to give a slight
sketch of her fathers acquaintance with Jeffkins.
I must say, interrupted Aunt Colville, before
~she had half finished, that it was not a reputable
thing to be, as one may say, hand and glove with
a drunken silk-weaver. The distinctions of society
uxiust be kept up: rich and poor are ordained by
Heaven, and are as much apart as light and dark-
-ness! No one has a higher sense of our Chrjstian
duties than I have, and I consider it as a something
quite revolting, this intimacy and attachment that
you talk of.
And was this young woman, this Fanny who
lived with Mrs. Sam, thisthisthis very dis-
reputable young woman, really brought up with
you ~ asked her uncle, rousing himself into a lit-
tle anger.
Not brought up with me, said Agnes; but
I frequently saw her as a child. My parents never
objected to my seeing her because she xvas poor;
and when she grew up, and was so very lovely,
and, as we believed, so good, we all of us felt
great interest in her Agnes paused. Tom
hastily swallowed his coffee, and casting a hasty
and anxious glance at his cousin, which she did
not see, rose from the breakfast table, fearful lest
his countenance might betray him. and stood by
the fire with his back to the table.
I remember, said Aunt Colville, that your
father wrote about her after she left Mrs. Sam.
She was a good-for-nothing huzzy, and I beg I
may never hear you speak of her as your friend
again. There must be distinctions in society
there is right and wrong; crime and depravity are
not imaginary things; and those who try to palli-
ate them, make themselves in some degree parties
to them.
Poor old Mr. Lawford perceived, by the tone of
his sisters voice, how angry she was getting
and, wishing to spare his niece, put a random
question to her, the most trying he could have hut.
And when did you see this unfortunate girl
last~ asked he. Tom started as he heard it, and
almost turned round.
It is a painful subject, uncle, said Agnes.
You cannot conceive how painful! Ask me no
more about it! But oh, for Gods sake, said
she, clasping her hands, and looking imploringly
tnto his face, do not impute evil to me! It is
true that I knew this poor girl to have been a sin-
ner, but I knew also the intense misery which she
endured. God is mercifullet man be so too!
And for my part, I again beseech of you not to
ascribe or impute evil to me. I believe it impossi-
ble for you or my aunt to understand perfectly my
familys connexion with poor Jeffkins and his un-
happy daughter; but indeed there was no pollu-
tion in it. Christ himself had familiar intercourse
with publicans and sinners, and perniitted his feet
to be bathed by the tears of Mary Magdalene !
Nay, nay, Agnes, interrupted her aunt, with
increased displeasure, let us have no more of
this! If you compare yourself and your family to
our blessed Lord, it is high time to put a stop to it.
It is not the first time you have done so, and I can
tell you that it is nothing short of blasphemy
Sit down, and let us have breakfast at once said
she, as if determined to put an end to the subject.
I have breakfasted, said Tom, hastily, and
went out.
Allow me to leave the table, said Agnes,
rising, and with tears in her eyes.
Yes, yes, child, go ! said her uncle, in a
hurried but gentle voice.
In t
he lobby she met Tom. He looked pale and
agitated, but passed her without speaking; the
next moment he returned, and, offering her his
hand, said in a peculiar voice. IDo not, Agnes,
let anything which my Aunt Colville said distress
you. We all know how good you are. My aunt
is a bad-tempered, formal, 01(1 woman.
Agnes thought of Toms words through the day.THI~ ATJTHOR~ S DA~JGHTER.
His words, it is true, were commonplace enough,
but yet the tone in which they were spoken affect-
ed her. The remembrance of his poor victim
never left her mind, and she sighed as she thought
that it was with tones as winning and as kind as
these that he had~ betrayed her to her ruin.
And what really was Toms state of mind as he
went out on that fresh, clear morning into the
park, where the first appearances of spring were
visible after the dead sleep of winter? What, in-
deed it was that of one whose impulses to good
are naturally strong, and who now is writhing un-
der the vulture-beak of self-accusation, of remorse
and sorrow. His feelings were agony, hitter
agony. He walked rapidly, as if to escape from
himself; and then, finding it impossible to do so,
sauntered along, as if in the vain hope that the
living anguish that tortured him might leave him
behind.
Never as yet had Tom Lawford communicated
any secret thought to a human being; now for the
first time he yearned for a friend whose milder
judgment might reconcile him to himself. He
thought of Agnes, with her deep, womanly love,
her tenderness, her forbearance towards the sin-
ner, her pity, and her gentleness; and then the
sense of the wrong and the injustice which he had
done to that hapless human being, whose life was
now his sacrifice, humbled him to the dust, and for
the first time he felt how grievously he had offend-
ed both God and humanity.
CHAPTER X.
Weeks went on; and Aunt Colville and Mrs.
Sam found more and more cause of displeasure
and dissatisfaction in poor Agnes.
They talked to her uncle about the distress of
mind which she still manifested regarding the un-
happy end of that wretched Fanny Jeff kins; but
the good old gentleman astonished them by taking
her part.
It showed, he said, her goodness of heart, her
humanity, her Christian charity; and besides this,
the conversations he had had with her convinced
him that a better girl or a more thorough gentle-
woman did not exist. She was reading, he said,
Archdeacon Colvilles workshe had no doubt
but that in time she would adopt opinions as
rational as their own.
Aunt Colville was not at all either satisfied or
convinced; and anxious for the sake of Mrs. Sams
little daughter, she resolved to become a third
occasionally at the reading of her late husbands
works, that thus she might duly enforce the ortho-
doxy which they contained, and also that she
might ascertain whether Agnes listened to them
in a teachable and becoming spirit. This, how-
ever, was not altogether satisfactory to the old
gentleman, nor yet to his niece; for, with all due
reverence to the memory of his learned brother-in-
law, he had always considered his works amazingly
heavy reading; and now, in presence of his very
observant relict, he had no chance of taking a quiet
doze, or of listening to Agnes arguments on the
other side the question, and of conceding, in a tone
which might pass either for conviction or indo-
lence, Well, well, child, we will argue it no
fartherperhaps the archdeacon may be wrong
after all !
Nothing could be more notoriously quiet than
Agnes life at the hall at this time. But her du-
ties were few and not unpleasant, and the affection
which her uncle evinced towards her was a cheer-
97
ing and heart-gladdening circumstance. At the
bottom of her heart, however, lay a sad and de-
pressing consciousness which weighed all the more
heavily because of the impossibility of making any
one her confidant in it. In vain she questioned,
directly and indirectly, her aunt regarding the
foundling child of which she had spoken; hut the
old lady, offended at what she called her lax
opinions, would not be communicative. Tier
uncle could tell her no more than that the child
had been sent to the parish, and that a woman of
indifferent character, at that time in the house,
who no doubt knew of its parentage, had taken it
out with her, and that was all that was known.
Mrs. Sykes, Mrs. Colvilles woman, confirmed the
same; and Agnes began to fear, that if this were
the child of poor Fanny, no occasion would ever
offer for her befriending it. Tom had relapsed
again into his natural reserve and imperturbabil-
ity, with this exception, that he too not unfre-
quently came also to hear the reading of the late
archdeacons sermons, which he never failed to
abuse whenever private opportunity occurred.
Now and then, however, Tom would talk of his
sister Ada, whose return home was deferred from
week to week. Tom was fond of his sister, and
seemed to have great pleasure in relating to Agnes
anecdotes respecting her.
At length spring came, in the full mature burst-
ing forth of its flowers and its birds songs, and
with it came Ada, and a new life at once began at
Lawford. Aunt Colville gave up the readings in
the library; receiving callers, or making calls,
occupied the mornings, and the evenings were de-
voted to parties. A round of gaie ties began, from
which the old gentleman, with the nervous irrita-
bility of an invalid, withdrew himself, requiring
all the more the attention of his niece. The idea
never seemed to occur to him, or to anybody else,
that he was unreasonable in requiring all her time
and attention. Are you happy? asked her
mother in many a letter, waiting with an anxious
heart for the reply. I am happy, said Agnes,
in the affection of my uncle. I am sure that he
loves me; he encourages me to talk of my father,
and now that my Aunt Colville is too much occu-
pied to join our reading parties, I am in hopes that
in tinie I may gain permission to read to him my
fathers works. My lovely cousin, Ada, is as cold
and indifferent in her behavior to me as ever; and
yet now and then she has surprised me by some
act or word of abrupt kindness and good feeling
towards me; and then, when my heart has warmed
towards her, she has again repelled me by her
haughty coldness. Nothing can be gayer than the
hall at this time; every day my Aunt Colville,
Ada, and Mrs. Sam go out; the younger ladies
often on horseback, attended by their servants, or
joining other equestrian ladies and gentlemen of
their acquaintance. In a few weeks Mr. Latimer
returns home. A great deal is said on this sub-
ject. The Actons are now at the Hays to prepare
for his reception; and to-morrow, a Miss Bolton,
a half-sister of Mr. Acton, and a young lady as I
am told of great fortune and beauty, comes here
on a visit of a few days. Report says that my
Aunt Colville, in her matrimonial speculations,
has destined her for the wife of my cousin Tom.
Poor Tom! He has come out of that icy shell of
coldness and reserve, which are his characteristics,
and which, I am beginning to think, hide many
good qualities. Tom, under an outward show of
great respect, has no love for my Aunt Colville;rilE ATJTlIOa~s DAUGIITEII.
he delights in quietly thwarting her; thence, per-
haps, the true secret of his little attentions to me.
As Agnes said, all was gaiety at the hail. It
was a late spring, but one of the most beautiful in
nature ; and the rooks in the old elm trees were
not busier building their nests, and rejoicing in the
sunlighted atmosphere which bathed their tree-
tops, than were the inhabitants of the hall them-
selves; there were parties on horseback in the
mornings, and dinner-parties and dances in the
eveninos this was on the outward surface, but
there was an under-current of excitement and ex-
pectation in the hearts of Aunt Colville and Ada,
which, though unconfessed by either lady to the
other, w~ s the mainspring of every action and
sentiment; and this was the approaching return of
Mr. Latimer. Wonderful was the kindness and
attention shown to the Actons and to Miss Bolton;
nothing was too much to do for them; and many
were the drives which Aunt Colville took to the
Hays, ostensibly to call on her friend, but to in-
dulge, in reality, a sort of pride, by anticipation
of the time when Ada might be its mistress.
Agnes did not join the gay equestrian parties,
nor did any one ask her to do so. She was like
a cipher in the house; and the old gentleman, who
fancied himself so much more of an invalid since
the commencement of the fine weather, shut him-
self up entirely in the little library. It did not
occur to him that Agnes might like to join in some
of the gaiety that was going on, or that it was
selfish to require through these fine balmy days
her incessant attention.
She really is a good creature, said Mrs. Sam,
one day aftei~ a long drive, who, having seen her
head bending over a book in the little library as
they went out, saw it in precisely the same posi-
tion on her return.
It is her duty, said Aunt Colville, coldly,
and her uncle is very fond of her. She has
always been used to books and study, and she does
not feel the fatigue of it as any one of us should;
she is naturally pale.
Do you not think her pretty, and very intel-
lectual looking 3 asked Miss Bolton.
She is a noble creature ! exclaimed Ada,
startling every one by her energy, and some day
or other I shall tell her so
Agnes was sitting at the library window one
splendid morning, waiting for the ringing of her
uncles bell, which was to summon her to the
inner-room, when Tom entered, as if by accident.
You here 3 he exclaimed, I thought you
were out with the rest of them.
No, said Agnes, wondering how he could
have thought so; I am waiting to read to my
uncle.
You II ruin your health, said Tom, with
all this reading: I thought I saw you with the
rest of them.
No ! said Agnes, smiling at what she knew
must be a false assertion.
But you went out with them yesterday 3
said he.
No! said she, and again laughed, for Tom
himself was of the yesterdays riding-party.
Do you pretend, then, to say that you never
go out 3 asked Tom, as if in perfect ignorance of
all that went on.
At that moment the bell rang, and Agnes turned
to go, taking up the seventh volume of Archdeacon
Colvilles works from the library table.
You shall not sit reading all day long; said
Tom decidedly; it is downright tyranny and self-
ishness of any one to require it: you look very
pale and ill. You shall go and take a walk round
the park. I am quite vexed that they are gone
without you; I wish I had only known it before!
Again the bell rang.
Thank you, cousin Tom, said Agnes, sur-
prised and somewhat affected by his kindness,
but indeed I cannot go this morning; my uncle
expects me.
It is enough to kill you, said Tom, looking
very earnest, and you shall not read this morn-
ing. I am not very fond of reading aloud, espe-
cially such chop ped straw as this, said he, taking
the book forcibly from her, but for once Ill do
it.,,
I shall read to you this morning, said he,
entering his fathers room; Agnes must go out
now and then; she looks quite ill; I wonder that
Mrs. Sam or Ada never think about her. I told
my Aunt Colville a month ago; and Agnes says
that she has never been out
The old man looked astonished, and asked her
if she were ill, and told her rather sharply, that if
she were so, she ought to have told him, for,
said he, I do not think you have ever found me
unreasonable.
I am not ill, uncle, returned Agnes.
Then why did you complain, child 3 asked
he pettishly.
Nor did I complain, said she smiling; hut
my cousin Tom was so kind.
Its only right that she should go out into the
fresh air sometimesevery day she ought to
said Tom, interrupting her.
Yes, yes, to be sure it is, said the old man;
but then, who is to read to me 3
I shall read to you, exclaimed Tom.
I am not fond of Toms reading, said the
old man; but you should have some fresh air.
I wonder Mrs. Colville or somebody does not think
of it.
Nothing touches the heart more than kindness
and consideration where it was not expected ; and,
as Agnes that morning took the walk which Tom
had desired her to take, the thought of poor Fanny
Jeffkins and her strange prophecy, He cannot
help loving you, and you cannot help loving him,~~
came vividly to her mind. She recalled his whole
behavior during the time she had been at Lawford,
his outward reserve and pride, and his many little
acts of kindness. Nobody evidently thought as
much about, or cared as much for her as he did.
Her uncle might love her, but there wasa selfish
exaction in his love. Her Aunt Colville treated
her with harshness as an inferior; Mrs. Sam nar-
rowly watched all her words and actions to detect
something improper in them. Ada was absorbed
by pleasure and her own occupation; she was
cold and haughty, and repelled every little attempt
of kindness on the part of Agnes. The friends of
the house came and went, and no one introduced
her to them. Poor Agnes! she wept as she
walked on through that primrose-covered copse,
of which her father in boyheod had been so fond,
and which she had regarded as a place of precious
memories; but, strange to say, on that morning
her thoughts were not of her father. An inde-
scribable sadness lay on her soul, which the gush-
ing golden sunshine and the sweet jargoning of the
birds among the budding trees, seemed only to
mock. A deep and living sense came over her,
of her really friendless and forlorn condition, ofTHE AUTHORS flAtJGHTELI.
her state of dependence and isolation, even among
her own kindred; she thought of her willingness
to love those who would not accept her love; and
thea came a dread and apprehension lest she
should give her love where her sense of honor had
hitherto so strongly forbidden it. On the one
hand, the dead body of poor Fanny Jeffkins
seemed to warn her back with all her wrongs, and
her hapless fall and fate: on the other, stood
Fannys betrayer, the one true heart among so
many cold ones, with his quiet deeds of kindness,
his thoughtfulness, his voice which had such a
touching tenderness in itand her heart seemed
pleading for him.
Oh, gracious Father in Heaven, sighedshe,
strengthen me to resist the tempter ; give me
strength to distinguish right from wrong, for I am
weak and ready to fall !
Strengthened and calmed by her mental prayer,
Agnes walked on. In the farthest copse she
heard the sound of childrens voices, and soon saw
a little group, as she imagined, from the neighbor-
ing hamlet, gathering flowers and making chains
of dandelion stems, with which they were orna-
menting a bright-eyed, auburn-locked cherub of a
child, which was seated in the lap of the eldest
girl. The baby, which might be about a year and
half old, was laughing and screaming with delight,
and throwing about his beautiful rounded limbs in
an ecstasy of childish glee. It was a lovely pic-
turesque group, and instantly arrested both Ag-
nes thoughts and steps.
What a beautiful child ! said she, putting
hack the rich curls from his sunny forehead; is
he your brother B asked she, addressing the girl
who held him.
Yes, said the girl, but with a peculiar hesi-
tation in her manner, which made Agnes again
question her.
Oh yes, Miss, all the same as brother, re-
turned the girl colorir.g; mother always reckons
him one of the family, said she, and hugged him
to her bosom.
Agnes seated herself upon a fallen tree beside
them, and the two other children, a boy in a some-
what ragged suit, and another wild urchin in petti-
coats, hetook themselves to a little distance, won-
derino what the lady had got to say.
Is this beautiful little creature an orphan
then? asked Agnes, interested both in the
baby and the girl who held him so lovingly in her
arms.
I dont know, returned she; but the
squire sent him to the house when we were there;
and as our little baby died, mother took him, and
so he has lived with us, and we love him as if he
were our own.
And where is your mother B inquired Ag-
nes.
Oh Miss, said the girl, tears at once filling
her eyes, mother is very ill, and I must now go
to her.
I too will go with you, said Agnes, and
accompanied the girl with the child in her arms,
half a mile farther on, down into a deep, secluded,
woodland lane, where, at some distance, stood a
green caravan, from the red chimney of which
ascended a thin blue smoke. The ragged lad and
the urchin in petticoats were not far off.
Is that your home 1 asked Agnes, compre-
hending at once that these were some of those
wandering potters or tinkers which were not un-
frequent in the neighborhood, and against whom,
as she had heard, her uncle, in the days ot his
magistefial activity, had waged war so despe-
rately
The girl told her, that her father sold brushes
and wooden-ware, and went up and down the
country, and that her elder brother went with him.
Their mother, however, who had been ill some
time, and was now a deal worse, was in the cara-
van which they saw, and that she would now run
and apprize her of the visiter who was coming.
Agnes offered to hold the beautiful child, but he
clung to his young nurse, and in their absence she
tried to make friends with the other two children,
who were hiding under the caravan; but at her
first word they started up and ran away, and then,
half in bashfulness, and half in petulance, threw
pebbles and little pellets of earth at her.
Presently, however, sbe was invited by the elder
girl up the steps of the caravan, and entering, she
found an anxious, sorrowful looking woman, with
ninny a sign of poverty about her, and who,
apparently far gone in consumption, was almost
too weak to rise to receive her visiter. Agnes
was touched by the first glance at the sick woman
and her abode, and seating herself beside her, in-
vited her kindly to speak freely of her present and
past condition.
We belong to the parish of Lawford, said
the woman; both my husband and me, and now
1 am come back to die here.
Perhaps not, said Agnes, kindly and hope-
fully; we have the summer before us.
Very true, miss, said she, but I shall not
see through the summer; and then God knows
what is to become of the children, and little
Johnny !that s what preys on my mind ! and
with this she wept bitterly.
But little Johnny is not your son B inquired
Agnes.
In one sense, no, said the woman, and
that is all the more distressing to me. You see,
miss, my own baby diedwe were in the poor-
house, for ours has been a hard lifeand as this
had no one to own it, neither father nor mother, I
took it for my own. My husband was as good
and well-meaning a man as ever trod in shoe-
leather when we married; but he offended the
squire and the rector with joining a political club
in Leicester. He was a reading man, and was
much sought after at clubs and ale-houses, be-
cause he could speak very well. He was then a
sort of under bailiff on the squires farm. But
envious folks told lies of him to his employer and
the rector; and he was young and thoughtless in
those days, and would not be warned to avoid even
the appearance of evil; so he lost first one place,
and then another. And the squires hardness and
severity, and the rectors together, awoke in him a
spirit of hatred and ill-will. We had children,
and we fell into poverty: one article of furniture
after another was pawned and sold to get us bread.
Nobody would give my husband a character; and
our very neighbors, who had known us in our bet-
ter days, looked shy on us. Oh, miss, kindness
and confidence keep up a mans self-respect more
than anything else! We came soon to feel as if
our being poor had degraded and debased us! My
husband went to Leicester to get employment, but
none was to be had. He came back, after an
absence of some weeks, famished. It was winter-
time; we had four children then livingwhen my
husband had left home there were five; but one
had died while he was away, and the parish had
99THE AUTHOR S DAUGHTER.
buried it. I expected that my husband would have
grieved sorely, but he did not; he shed not a
tear: he only said tbat he wished the other four
were under the sod with little Bessy. I was ex-
pecting to become a mother again almost daily;
we had no food ; house-rent was going on; we
were in despair; and oh, God help the poor who
are driven to despair! It was winter timea
black, bitter frostand we were dying of cold and
hunger. My husband had become reckless, and
almost ferocious. lie called the rich tyrants; and
ground and gnashed his teeth when he heard the
children c1~y. My time approached, and I sent to
old Mrs. Colville to beg help : but she sent me
word that she could relieve none but persons of
good character. At that moment the children,
who had gone out to beg, came home crying for
cold and hunger. My husband was roused to fury
he went out swearing a fearful oath. The next
day we had plenty to eat ; we feastedus and
the children: God knows how we had needed
food before. The third day after that my husband
was taken up for a poacher, and sentenced to six
months imprisonment and hard labor, and we were
taken into the house. In the midst of disgrace and
poverty, and distress of mind, my child was born.
The night that it was born I heard the women
talking of a young child which had been found at
the hall gates~
Agnes started at these words, and breathlessly
awaited fur the continuation of the woman s
story.
It made a great talk in the house, she con-
tinued; some said one thing, and some another;
but the squire sent the child to the house, and old
Mrs. Colville came herself. She was very angry,
and said that it was a proof of the wickedness and
hard-heartedness of tbe poor, because this child
was abandoned by its mother. Some of the poor
folks in the house sided with her, and others took
against her. I, for my part, who had gone
through so much, thought t bat despair, such as
we had felt, had perhaps closed the heart of this
childs mother against it, and I had pity on both
it and her. There was nobody in the house to
nurse it but me. They gave me good food, and
plenty of it, and my bodily strength soon returned,
but my own baby was sickly, and died. My
heart clung to the nursling that had no mother to
cherish it; so I gave to it my babys name, and
said that it should be mine in the place of the one
I had lost. Nobody made any objectionMrs.
Colville even approved, and sent to me then a
bundle of baby-clothes.
At length the time came when my husbands
imprisonment was at an end. He returned home
if home that might be called, which was no
more than a roof to cover us. The six months of
his imprisonment had changed his very nature.
He had associated with men ten times worse than
himself; he knew that he was now a branded
man, and he was in reality depraved. The se-
verest misery that I endured, was in perceiving
the change that was come over him. When he
heard that my baby was dead, and that in its
stead I had adopted another, he was very angry.
He refused to let me have ithe threatened to
tear it from my breast. It was not ours, he said,
and we would not burden ourselves with it. The
child was dear to me as my own flesh and blood
-. The poor woman paused; she wiped the
drops of sweat which stood upon her brow, and
seemed overcome and oppressed by the remem~
brance.
Agnes listened in breathless interest, and with-
out saying a word, wiped away her own tears.
It would have broken my heart, continued
the woman, after a few moments, to have parted
with the child; but fortunately a letter came from
some unknown hand, offering to my husband the
sum of twenty pounds on condition of his adopting
the child, and removing from the parish. Twenty
pounds to a man in niy husbands circumstances,
was a sufficient inducement to do even more than
this. He laid in a little stock of such articles
as are used in country-places; and we began our
life of wandering. Success attended usbut my
husband was no longer the open-hearted man he
had been. A hard, cold, griping spirit had taken
possession of him; he hated the rich, and had
neither compassion for, nor faith in the poor. We
now travel about from place to place. The life
suits him and the boys. I took cold the first
winter we were out; for it is perishingly cold
o nights in the caravan. He has bad associates,
and is brutal and surly. He never has liked the
child, God knows why, though it was the means
of his having a livelihood in his hands.When I
am gone it will have a hard life among them.
But, said Agnes, you have a daughter, a
kind-hearted girl, who loves the child.
Ah, miss, said the mother with a deep sigh,
my husband will bring a stepmother to the
caravanI know it all! I have seen her, a stout,
strapping quean, the head taller than me. She
was in jail when my husband was there, and
Heaven knows how she has gained so much influ-
ence over him. She has offered to come here to
nurse me, and take care of the children; but
no ! said she, raising herself, and with an almost
fierce expression in her hollow eyes, let her
come into the caravan if she dare, while the breath
is in my body !
There was something desperate and almost say
age in the womans tone and manner; and the
little child that was playing on the floor of the
caravan, looked up in her face, and terrified, be-
gan to cry. Agnes took him on her knee, and
soothed him; she stroked his hair and caressed
him tenderly. This then was the child that had
been committed to her care and love, by his un-
happy mother. His father, as the letter from the
unknown hand, and the twenty pounds proved,
had acknowledged his claim. She fancied that in
his clear eyes, and his peach-like complexion, she
could trace a resemblance to his wretche(l mother.
A deep sympathy, an inexpressible tenderness
towards him filled her heart, and while her tears
fell upon his curling hair, she clasped him in her
arms, and he, no longer afraid, looked up into her
face with the beautiful confidence of childhood,
and smiled.
God knows, said the poor woman, as if sud-
denly awoke to a new idea, if I have done well
in talking thus freely to you of our affairs, I
know not how I came to do itbut surely, miss,
you will not in any way betray me !
Indeed I will not, said Agnes, in a tone of
warm sincerity, and I will comne again to see
you, nor will the child be uncared for; God will
send him friends !
With these, and other such words, she took her
leave; and the woman, assured and some way
comforted by her presence, watched her through
100THE AUTHORS DATJGHTEIL
the open door of the caravan till the windings of
the lane concealed her from sight.
This strange and unexpected discovery agitated
Agnes greatly, and as she hastily pursued her
way back to the hall, she endeavored to ascer-
tain what was for her the best mode of action;
but she could not decide, and with her mind still
in a perfect tumult of feeling, she reached the
hall amazed and half alarmed to find how long
she had been absent. 11cr cousin Toms groom
waited at the door with his horse, and the ladies
~vere returned. As she passed the drawing-room
door, she heard an eager discussion amon~ them,
and presently Adas voice, which said, There is
Agnes, ask her.
She was called in, and found the table and sofa
covered, with materials for splendid evening and
ball dresses. Old Mrs. Colville and the young
ladies were making purchases for a grand party,
which was to take place in the neighborhood in
about a fortnight, and by which time it was ex-
pected that Mr. Latimer would be returned. Tom
was with the ladies, and there was now a differ-
ence (if opinion with regard to Adas dress,
whether it was to he a silver gauze over pink
satin, or a gold-sprigged muslin over white. Ada,
secretly remembering the night at the deanery,
when she wore the pink brocade, and made so
much impression on Mr. Latimer, inclined to a
dress of the same color ; her brother, Mrs. Sam,
and Miss Bolton, advocated the white.
Here is Agnes, let us hear her opinion,~~
said Tom, who from the window had seen her ap-
proach.
There is no need to ask her ! said Aunt
Colville.
There is Agnes, ask her ! said Ada, without
noticing her aunts words, as she heard her step
on the stairs.
Agnes ~vas called in, and the important ques-
tion proposed to her, and the respective dc-
gancies of each dress dwelt upon at some length.
Poor Agnes! she was in no state of mind, just
then, to enter fully into the merits of a ball dress;
besides which, she was alarmed to think of having
apparently neglected her uncle so long.
They are both beautiful, said Agnes: I
do not know indeed to whbrh to give the prefer-
ence.
But which do you think will suit Ada the
best? asked Miss Bolton.
Agnes considered for a moment , glancing first
at her beautiful cousin, and then at the two dresses
as they hung side by side; I think the pink
would suit her best, said Agnes, but now in-
deed I must go !
Stop ! cried Tom; but Agnes went, and
then turning to his sister he inquired if Agnes
would not be of the party.
how can she? said his aunt, impatiently.
She must stop at home with her uncle; you
know how difficult he has been to manage this
morning; it is thoughtless of her to go out in this
way !
rrom began eagerly to say, that his father had
not been impatient; and that his having gone out
in his bath-chair was a very good thing, and then,
,again turning to his sister, he inquired whether
Agnes was noV to be of the party.
Ada said she did not know ; she had not been
invited; but there was no objection to her going
with them.
My dear, interrupted Mrs. Colville, how
101
can she go in her mourning, which is very shab-
by? Poor thing! she would be very uncomforta-
ble in such a party.
Ladies can dress themselves with a deal of
taste and elegance even in mourning, said Tom,
pertinaciously.
Certainly, said Ada; and if Agnes really
were going, there are some beautiful things even
here which would be very becoming to her. Sup-
pose, aunt, we were to buy her one.
My dear, returned Mrs. Colville, what is
the use of taking people out of their sphere.
Agnes cannot go out everywhere with us. Be-
sides there would not be room in the carriage. In
a little while we shall be having little rural par-
ties and quiet dinners, said she, recollecting that
these things were to Mr. Latimers taste, and
then we can take her with us. At present, let
her attend to her duties; besides, her position in
life does not fit her for general society.
But Miss Agnes Lawford, in point of position,
is equal to any of us, said Miss Bolton; ~ and I
am sure that Mrs. Acton would include her in
every invitation she gave.
Tom looked approvingly on the young lady;
and Mrs. Colville, who seemed not to hear what
was said, turned to her favorite niece, and asked
whether she had decided on the pink or the white
dress.
I have decided on the pink dress, said Ada.
Tom had that morning induced his father to go
out in his bath-chair; the exercise and the fresh
air had done him good; he was unusually cheer-
ful: declared that he would have no more of
Archdeacon Colville that day, and that Agnes
must sit down and amuse him. Poor Agnes was
not at all in a humor for amusing anybody; her
uncle said that she was very dull and stupid, and
he could not think what was amiss with her, and
really, if walking did her no more good, she had
better stay at home. From that day, however,
the old gentleman went out daily himself; and
Agnes had thus a few hours for leisure if not for
enjoyment. The thought of the poor inmates of
the caravan was forever present to her mind, and
it was not many days before she again betook her-
self to the woodland lane, to inquire after the sick
woman, and to see the child which had so painful
and so peculiar an interest for her. But the lane
was solitary from one end to the otherthe cara-
van and its people were gone. A fear took pos-
session of her mind lest they were gone forever,
and she reproached herself for having done so lit-
tle, where so much was required from her.
Agnes could not but think of her cousin Tom
many things obtruded him upon her mind, and
nothing more than his kindness and sympathy
towards her, so different from the cold, proud
Ada. And why is Ada so cold and proud, and
why is my Aunt Colville so austere and unkind?
9uestioned she painfully, many a time. Ah, she
felt so bitterly that this was not home; and yet all
the more did home-affections and home-pleasures
cling about her heart! She really had no home
she was dependant, and was made to feel her
dependance. No one seemed to have sympathy
with her or kindness for herno one but her old
infirm uncle and her cousin Tom; her uncle she
really loved, and was ready to serve with all her
mightbut Tom! Ah, poor Agnes! how she
feared any insidious, sliding sentiment of love
entering her heart for him! The little child, and
poor Jeff kins and his daughter, warred in her soulTH~ AUTHORS DAUOllT~fl.
against him. He is selfish and cold-hearted, said
she, and nothing but my miserable, friendless con-
dition makes my heart weakly incline to bin-i!
Thus she reasoned and pondered; and all this
veasoning and pondering on his character and con-
duct might have been perilous to her peace, had
she not endeavored to act in an open, straight-for-
ward course, and as far as she could see it in the
entire fulfilment of her duty. She had come to
Lawford with no definite idea of the place she was
to occupy in the family, whether she was to be
guest, adopted daughter, or humble domestic
friend. All was in darkness around her; hut she
soon found out one little straight-forward path of
duty, and that wa devotion to her uncle; and
now, more than ever, she resolved to keep herself
to that, and leave the rest to God. For this rea-
son, she was careful in no way to obtrude herself
on any of the family or their guests; and such
hours as were not spent in attendance on her
uncle, she spent either in walking or in her own
chamber, where she could at least command soli-
tude and the indulgence of her own thoughts.
A day or two after that on which the dresses
for the grand party were purchased, Tom Lawford
surprised his sister Ada, by asking her to come
into his room where he had something of impor-
tance to consult her upon. Her heart beat vio-
lently, and she thought that it must be connected
with Latimer.
I want to take you into my council, Ada,
said he, speaking as if with difficulty, which
really was the case, for he had done violence to his
aatural reserve on this occasion.
Ada stood looking at him in silence awaiting his
words.
My aunt and Mrs. Sam, said he, spoke the
other day of Agnes dress not being fit to appear
in society in; now, Ada, will you give her a
dress l will you get a dress made for her I
Ada smiled, and Tom felt ready to repent of
what he had done,
It would not be agreeable to her, said he,
assuming at once an air of boldness and decision,
nor should I like her to know that I make her a
present.
Ada smiled, thinking to herself that her brother
was captivated by this quiet and gentle cousin.
I admire it in you, Tom, said she, speaking
in her occasionally energetic manner, and I will
assist you in any way that I can. Agnes is a very
good girl, and my heart often reproaches me re-
garding her: and her life is dull enough here. But
let me see what you have purchased.
Tom never felt so awkward in his life before, as
when he drew forth a considerable packet, and
displayed to his sister the costly dress he had pur-
chased.
Ada looked at it with surprise, and said not a
word.
You do not approve of what I have done l
said Tom.
Yes, I do, with all my heart, said Ada,
but what will my aunt say?
Oh ! said Tom, at once struck by a new and
bright idea, the present is not mine, it is my
fathers, only I was commissioned by him to pur-
chase it.
Very peculiar of my father, said Ada,
smiling, to commission you to purchase a ladys
dress; but, never mind! I admire your thought-
fulness and your kindness, said she, hastily put-
ting the things together.
Never let any one know, said Tom, that
this gift is from me. Above all things, never let
her know it, else I should hate to see her wearing
it!
It is my fathers gift, said Ada, smiling
again.
And must be kept a profound secret till the
night of the party, said Tom; and then she is
to go with us.
She shall, said Ada.
cIIAPItR XI.
The days went on, and the time of Mr. Latimers
return was at hand. A gnes had heard so much
of him, and saw so plainly the excitement which
his expected presence occasioned, that she, too,
could not help having a great curiosity about him.
Her uncle had described him over and over again
had described him as handsome, good, and clever,
unlike every one else of their acquaintance; the
only dra~vback being that he was a little, the least
in the world, inclined to Whiggism; but of that,
as he grew older, he would mend, said the old
gentleman, consolingly. He was so good a land-
lord, so wise a magistrate, so fine a scholar, said
he; he was quite sure that Agnes had never seen
his equal among all the great and learned people
that she had seen in London ! Agnes listened;
and, spite of her curiosity, a sort of reaction was
occasioned in her mind. My uncles ideas of
excellence, thought she, are so different from
mine, that I am sure to be disappointed. I have
seen more men of intellect than any of the good
people here, and finer scholars, and more perfect
gentlemen: and I know that he will fall far short
of my standard of perfection !
This skepticism was, however, a little staggered
one morning, when Mrs. Acton, not finding either
Mrs. Colville or Ada at home, introduced herself
into the library, where Agnes sat with her uncle.
This, then, was Mr. Latimers sister, with that
bright, intelligent, kind countenance! It was
possible that her brother might be like her, and if
so, he must be all that his friends described him.
Never had any one yet at Lawford shown to Ag-
nes the same consideration and attention as this
lady; and yet she knew that Agnes was poor,
was a dependant in the family. Had she been a
countess in her own right, she could not have re-
ceived more marked attention. As Mr. Frank
Lawfords daughter, said she, to the old gentle-
man, when Agnes was absent from the room for a
moment, she is to me extremely interestingand
what a beautiful countenance she has !
Dear me! we never reckoned her handsome;
hardly good-looking, said the old gentleman,
quite astonished and yet pleased, for Agnes was
very dear to him.
With, as it were, an instinctive sense, A gnes
felt that Mrs. Acton was a kindred spirit, that she
belonged to the class of mind to which she was
allied, and with whom she had hitherto lived. A
sentiment of inexpressible sadness oppressed her
heart, she knew not why, an anxiety, a tenderness
that made her long to weep upon the bosom of
such a friend. It was as if, for the first time
since her fathers death, she breathed the spirit of
her own home. Not a word, however, of this
was expressed; but Mrs. Aetna might have di-
vined it; for, at parting, she pressed a warm
kiss on Agnes lips, and expressed a desire that
they might often meet, that they might be friends.
Mrs. Acton, during her call, mentioned the
102TIlE AtYTIIOR S DA1ITOHTER.
great party which was at band, and said, she
hoped that they might meet there. She also con-
gratulated Agnes on the friendship that must sub-
sist between her cousin Ada and herself. She
spoke of Ada with warmth and kindness ; called
her a noble and a generous-hearted girl, and said
that she considered her as beautiful in mind as in
person. Agnes was grieved that she could not
respond as warmly as she saw was expected to the
praises of her cousin, and felt, as she had often
done before, how differently things and characters
present themselves to the rich and the poor, to the
powerful and the dependent.
It was now the last week in May, and the whole
country was one gush of mature vernal beauty.
Glorious weather, all the world said, for the
grand party at Merley Park ! Nothing had heen
talked of but this party for weeks; and since the
time when Mrs. Acton had expressed a wish and
an expectation of meeting Agnes there, the desire
to go had taken possession of her mind.
Is Agnes going to Merley Park on Wednes-
day? asked old Mr. Lawford, one day, of his
sister Colville.
Agnes heart heat, and she glanced to her aunt
for an answer.
She has not been asked, said Aunt Colville;
but that is not of so much consequence: the
question is, can you spare her, and whether she
wishes to go ii said she, looking at Agnes, with
an expression that said as plainly as words, Of
course you do not !
I should very much like to go, replied Ag-
nes, decidedly hut timidly.
You should? said Aunt Colville, in a tone
of hitter surprise; hut there are many things to
be considered. I dont very well see how we can
make room in the carriage. I dislike crowding on
such occasions: there will be Mr. and Mrs. Sam,
Ada, and myself.
Sam can go with me, said Tom, who was
present; or, Mr. and Mrs. Sam can drive toge-
ther.
And then your dress, continued Aunt Col-
ville, it would not do to go badly dressed.
I will give her a dress, said her uncle: see
that she has a handsome one; I know that Mrs.
Acton will expect to see her there.
We must see if you are well enough, brother,
continued the pertinacious old lady; but you
know that you are often very poorly of an evening.
You have often kept Ada and me at home; and I
know that Agnes would not wish to go, unless it
were quite convenient. This is a large party, and
I dont know whether we on ht to take an ad-
ditional one with us; and there will he plenty of
opportunities, besides this, of her going out with
us.
Agnes felt wounded ; to her it seemed as if no
one avished her to go; and with an agitation of
voice, which she in vain tried to repress, she re-
plied, that she would stay at home.
Well, I see no great hardship in it, said Mrs.
Colville; and [think it better that you should.
No more was said; visitors were announced,
and the subject, as Agnes believed, passed from
every mind but her own.
The day of the party was at hand, and news
came to the hall that Mr. Latimer had arrived at
home. They expected to meet him for the first
time at Merley Park. A stillness and repose
seemed, for some days past, to have fallen upon
the household at Lawford, as of intense and almost
breathless expectation. Ada was unusually calm
103
and pale, and her beautiful countenance had a
pen ive, nay, almost anxIous expression, which
Agnes interpreted as the expression of intense love.
Mrs. Sam had long interviews with Mrs. Coiville,
but abotit what nobody knew.
The beautiful dresses for the party came home
on the day it was to take place, and with them the
one for Agnes. Mrs. Cola ille was aniazed. She
had no idea, she said, that her brother had really
given an order for one. No less surprised was
Agnes: a very natural reaction took place in her
own mind; she had been unjust to them; they
were kinder to her than she had imagined. She
was filled with gratitude and love; her counte-
nance beamed with happiness. The surprise of
such unlooked-for kindness, and the anticipation
of now really meeting Mrs. Acton that very night,
and seeing Mr. Latinier, filled her with a quiet
animation which gave altogether a new expression
to her whole person. With affectionate gratitude
she hastened to her uncle, to thank him for his
munificent present. I know that I owe all this
to you, dear uncle, she said ; but much as I
should like to go, if I thought you would miss me,
or that you were not so well, I would gladly stop
at home.
What a blessed feeling, capable of every sacri-
fice, is that of love and gratitude
The old gentleman was as much pleased as she
was. He ordered her to put on her new dress,
and come down to be looked at. He smiled and
kissed her, and said that she really was a very
lovely girl, and that be had no idea that she could
look so handsome. He insisted on Ada and Aunt
Colville coming down to see her. But Aunt Col-
ville was at that moment busy; she was in Adas
dressing-room, passing judgment on that young
ladys dress; for her toilette on this evening was
of particular importance, and nothing could exceed
its elegance.
Have you seen my little Agnes? asked Mr.
Lawford, as half an hour afterwards Aunt Colville
entered. She is really quite charming !
I have, said Mrs. Colville; but I must tell
you, brother, that I had a great deal rather she did
not go. It never was my wish that she should
we have no room for her in the carriage, and she
is not expected. She knows nobody xvho will be
there; she will have to sit all the evening without
dancing! You do not consider these things !
She 11 get partners, said her uncle, never
fear. If I were young, 1 should fall in love with
her.
Well, Mr. Lawford, said Mrs. Colville, rais-
ing herself with dignity, I can tell you, once for
all, that I ani not going to take her. I had left
the thing quite satisfactorily arranged; she had no
expectation, till you put it into her head; and I
must tell you that it is no kindness to take her out
to such parties. What is she, in fact ?but a sort
of domestic !
She is my niece ! said Mr. Lawford, in a
towering passion; and I insist upon it that she
goes!
I shall not take her! said the lady, with de-
cision.
The two might have proceeded to even fiercer
contention, had they not, at this moment, been in-
terrupted by Agnes herself, who, still in her new
dress, and with eager and delighted astonishment
in her countenance, entered avith a set of splendid
jet ornaments in her hand. The fact avas, that
when she returned to her chamber, and was about
to take off her dress, her eye was caught by a 104 THE AUTHOR S DAUGHTER.
carefully-wrapped-up packet on her toilette table, I can to get her introdu~1 to partners and people;
addressed to herself. She opened it, and found it hut if she knows anything~ of parties of this kind,
to contain these ornaments, she knows very well, tht unless a girl have ac-
Who had given them to her was her first quaintance in the room, ~6r have great beauty or
question. How kind and generous every one was fortune to bring her into n tice, she may sit the
to her! thought she; and, believing the donor to whole evening like a cip ~r in the rooni; and I
he her cousin Ada, she entered her dressing-room know nothing more painfi~ to witness than that,
with a freedom which she had never used befi)re. to say nothing of what the Wing of it must be.
I know, dearest Ada, said she, that you Agnes thought to herse~f~that the fact of her
have given me these. How beautiful they are being the daughter of Mr ~ rank Lawford would,
exactly the ornaments I want. How you all make in such society as she had any knowledge of, give
me love you U her distinction enough hut( thus appealed to by
I have not given them to you, replied Ada, her aunt, she replied, that s?Pshonld greatly pre-
as much astonished as her cousin. I never saw fer staying at home. Poor rl! she never had
them before ! really felt till then how the s~ ~ of pride and arro-
Then, to whom am I obhigedP asked Agnes. gance can set its foot upon aiiuman heart, and
Perhaps to papa, returned Ada, thinking that crush it to the dust. She felt Pkerly humiliated
very likely this conjecture was not true, however, she longed to weep freely t~Qiur forth her out-
With this, Agnes hastened to her uncle, and raged feelings into some tc4~r, sympathizing
entered, as we have seen, in the midst of conten- bosom; but none was near her~
tion regarding herself. In a moment, she saw the Mrs. Colville had gained her ~pint. When did
excited and angry countenances of both her rela- she fail of doing so land this b~r~g the case, she
tives; and holding the ornaments displayed in her could even flatter. jib
hand, she stood for a second, and then, apologizing I must say, Agnes, she ~ i4, that your
for her intrusion, was about to withdraw, but her dress is handsome and very becon~eg. I am sure
aunt called her back. you are greatly obliged toyour un~j~ andthese,
Agnes, said she, I give you credit for a she said, taking up the jet rosary.1~hich hung in
great deal of good sense, and perhaps for some Agnes hand these, too, are yoI~ uncles pres-
knowledge of the worldIDo you wish in reality ent, I suppose l
to go with us this eveningl I came to thank you for them,Pcar uncle.
And why not, aiint~ said she. said Agnes, turning to him. 3
Why not? repeated her aunt, with difficulty I know nothing about them, returned he,
suppressing her passion. Because, unless you petulantly. They are not of my gV;ing, and I
had been especially invited, I consider your duty wish I niigbt not be bothered.
to be in atteiidance on your uncle. Whose giving are they, theniiB Kid Auni
I do not want her attendance, said the old Colville; but we must see about that ; and, as
gentleman, angrily; and I say she shall go! if with the intention of doing so, she left the room
Am I to be thwarted in this way? No; I tell Go, Agnes, said her uncle, I can do very
you plainly that Agnes shall go, or else Ada shall well without you.
stay too ~ Are you angry with me, then? asked she, a
Agnes heart beat tumultuously, and she seemed longer able to suppress her emotions.
hurled at once into the dust from the pinnacle of No, I am not angry with you, said he, in a
delight to which she had been unexpectedly raised. husky voice ; hut I can do without you: not
Agnes, said her aunt, almost fiercely, are that I am angry with you, my poor girl, added
you going to be a firebrand amongst us? he, seeing her weeping figure before him attired
Indeed, I am not, returned Agnes, meekly, in that splendid dress, which so little accorded
at least not willingly; and to end the contest, with her state of mind; but I do net wish
of my own free will I prefer to remain at home. them to think that I am quite an idiot. Now.
You and I, dearest uncle, said she, laying her go !
hand on ihe back of his chair, will have a quiet Not until you have kissed me ! returned
evenin together. More she could not say, for Agnes, feeling that she needed this token of
her heart was very full.
reconciliation and kindness to keep her heart from
I know, Mrs. Colville, said the old gentle- breaking.
man, that you think me a childish, fanciful old Well, well, said her uncle, kissing her with
man, who must have somebody to look after him real affection there is no need for us to quarrel.
and amuse him: now, I am not this; and I tell There, now, dont spoil your good looks with cry-
you plainly that Agnes shall not be kept at home ing. I wanted everybody to see to-night how
for my sake. I do not want her; I do not wish lovely you were. I know they think you a plain
her to stay; I can take care of myself, and amuse girl; but you are not so !
myself. I dislike beiiig treated hike a child, Mrs. Agnes smiled at her uncles compliment, and
Colville. withdrew. She returned to her chamber, and (~
Mrs. Colville, who had full reliance on Agnes took off the beautiful dress which, but a short time
own pride and good sense, replied in a much more before, had filled her with such joy and gratitude.
moderate and amiable tone than she had hitherto How differently it looked to her now! The charm
spoken in. At our time of life, brother, she and beauty was gone from it; and she felt acutely
aid, it is not seemly for us to be disputing about that, let even this dark time pass away, the sting
trifles. I think I must have given evidence enough of it would long remain. Anguish of heart and
how much your dear childrens interest is at my mortification seemed stitched into every fold, and
heart. If, however, you cannot trust our sweet it seemed to her as if she never could put it on
Ada to me, you must find another chaperon for again. Those ornaments, toowhich the donor
her. But that shall make no difference in my feel- no doubt intended should give her pleasurewere
ings towards her; and as to Agnes, I will l~ave it the subject of unpleasant questioning and surmise.
to herself. She shall go to-night, if she likes, and She enclosed them again in their case; and, throw-
I will be a good chaperon to her, and I will do all ing herself on her bed, wept hisserly.

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The Living age ... / Volume 7, Issue 75Littell's living ageEvery Saturday; a journal of choice readingEclectic magazineThe Living age co. inc. etc.New York etc.October 18, 18450007075The Living age ... / Volume 7, Issue 75105-152

LITTELLS LIVING AGE.No. 75.iS OCTOBER, 1845.
CONTENTS.
1. Mexico and the United States Atheneum
2. Duffys Irish Library Britannia
3. Mesmerisers Athenceum
4. American Fiction
5. British Combination against the American Union, Spectator
6. Eyres Expeditions of discovery in Australia, . .
7. Margaret of Valois Blackwoods Magazine
8. Discoveries in the Ruins of Nineveh Sillimans Journal
9. The Authors Daughterchaps. 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Mary Howilt
SCRAPS.M. Royer Collard; Scientific Corgress at Rheims; Lowells Conversations, 106
Air Engine; Sublime and Something more, 113Site Refusing, 114Ibrahim, 116
Paris Academy of Sciences, 11 Aug., 120Intercourse of the Great and the Little, 131
Vegetable Non-Conductor; Mineral Region of Lake Superior, 136Artificial Quartz;
Anti-Friction Metals, 152.
POETRY.ThC Cross is Bending, 114The Spirit Tryst, 115Fide et Fortitudine, 131.
MEXICO AND THE UNITED STATES.
THE Athemeum of 13th September, after giving
an account of the dilapidation of Mexico, thus
proceeds:
In such circumstances nobody can he sur-
prised at the ambitious views of the sister republic
on the eastern shores of the same continent. As
early as 1803, Colonel Aaron Burr made no secret
of his intention to revolutionize New Spain. His
conduct indeed was disavowed but what satisfac-
tion was that to Mexico or Spain, seeing that it
~as approved by government and people l Still
the older republic was taught one lessonto act
with greater cautionto substitute cunning for
open force. In conformity with this policy, a
treaty of limits was proposed by him some years
afterwards ; and the basis of the proposal deserves
especial consideration at the present moment. The
whole country north of the river Bravo del Norte
and of the thirty-first degree of north latitude, was
to be surrendered to the United Statesin other
words, there was to be an absolute cession of
Texas, New Santander, New Biscay, New Mexi-
co, most of Sonora, and Upper California! De-
graded as the court of Madtid undoubtedly was,
she rejected these unworthy proposals with indig-
nation, and directed the colonial provinces to pro-
tect themselves against both the open and secret
attempts of their insidious neighbor. The cession
of the Floridas in 1819, suspended these proceed-
ings; but on the downfall of the royal authority,
they were resumedwith greater caution indeed,
but with greater effect. If any faith is to be
placed in the assertion of men who ought to be
well informed, concessions of territory have been
repeatedly though secretly wrung from the Mexi-
can governments, from Iturhide down to Santa
Anna. One thing at least is certainthat the
agent.s of the United States have for many years
been actively employed in preparing the minds of
the people in all the northern provinces, and
T~XXV. LIVING AGE. voL. vii. 7
especially New Mexico, and Upper California, for
an incorporation with the great republic. Nothing
could be safer than such intrigues. When unsuc-
cessful, they are disavowed ; when likely to lead
to a good result, they are uniformly supported.
Thus it is with Texas, which, in spite of all the
opposition that England conld offer, is an-
nexed. And thus it will also be with New Cali-
fornia. In 1836 the inhabitants were prevailed on
to rise against the authority of Mexico, and to
assert their independencea measure necessarily
preparatory to annexation. Before a province
can treat with an independent state, it must itself
be free, or at least pretend to he so, which answers
the same purpose ; for no sooner does it declare
its independence, than its act is recognized by the
cabinet at Washington. In 1841, and the follow-
in, year, as we shall soon have occasion to
observe, the strides made by those agents, and
even by the acknowledged functionaries of the
United States, were still more decided. While
the question in regard to Texas was pending, a
show of moderation was necessary ; but now that
it is settled, the intrigues in California will go on
with greater vigor, until a new annexation takes
place. Whatever our ministers (who seem
strangely negli~ent of information full of meaning
to everybody else) may say or think of the matter,
the aggrandizement is systematic, and its results
are inevitable. Tbey are clearly perceived by our
author, and by the government which lie serves.
All the Spanish provinces of North America will
soon form an integral portion of the most ambitious
republic the world has yet seen. And we know
not, that such a result ought much to be depre-
cated. Whatever may he thought of that Utopian.
dream, the balance of power, the interests of
humanity are paramount to every other considera-
tion. In Mexico any change must he for the bet-
ter; governmei~t, law, religion, education, indi-
vidual happinesseverything must gain by it.
However, while as Englishmen we regard the pro
PAGE.
105
107
109
110
112
117
121
132
152io3 CONGRESS AT RIIEIMSLOWELL5S CONVEttSATIONS.
ceedings of the American cabinet with indignation,
as philanthropists, we can hardly avoid looking
with satisfaction to their results. Government is
to be valued only as it conduces to the welfare of
the governed. Where it does not and cannot
answer this obvious end, the sooner it is replaced
by another, the better for humanity. We are by
no means sure that the United States will gain by
her system. To a nation the reverse of mili-
tary, and (what is much more serious) without a
direct central authority, an indefinite extension of
frontier must necessarily be a source of weakness.
That frontier in many cases could be defended
neither by itself, nor by the union to which it be-
longs. Then the div6rsities of character, of feel-
ing, and of interests, betx ceo the component parts
of such a body politicdiversities the more strik-
ing as we recede from a given pointmust daily
weaken the bonds of connection between parts
so heterogeneous. Such unions, whatever their
ostensible political advantages, can never be cor-
dial, and therefore, they can never be permanent.
In our opinion, the greatest curse that could befall
the Anglo-Americans, would be the immediate
accomplishment of their own designs. They
would lead to a union indeed, unexampled for ex-
tent in the history of the world; but it would
assuredly not be a union of strength. And the
day would not be far distant when the rival inter-
ests of the northern and southern states would be
brought into fatal collision.
THE Paris papers mention the death, on the
4th instant, at his estate of Chateanvicux, in the
82d year of his age, of one of the most distinguished
~hilosophical writers in France, M. Royer Collard.
This gentleman was a member of the French
-~ Academy, and Professor of Philosophy at the
Coli~ge de France; and, as we remember, it is not
many months since his published works werc
adopted as classical by the university of Paris
this being the first instance in which that honor
was ever conferred, by the Institution in question,
on the writings of a living man. M. Royer Col-
lard had other titles to distinction amongst his
fellow-c izens; and most of our readers, no doubt,
know that he had filled the chair of President in
the Chamber of Deputies.The Augsburg Gazette
announces the decease, at Rome, of the learned
Barnabite Ungarelli; who was Rosselinis instruc-
tor in Hebrew, and his pupil in hieroglyphic
science. As Order-brother of the Cardinal-Secre
tary Lambruschini, he enjoyed peculiar advantages
for the study and cultivatio.n of Egyptian antiqui-
ties; and his death is especially lamented for the
delay which it is likely to occasion in the produc
- tion of the projected, and already far-advanced,
edition of the Museo Gregoriano Egizio .The
Spanish journals speak of the death, at Mondragon,
at an age exceeding 80, of one of the patriarchs of
- the Basque country, Senhor Juan Jgnacio Iztneta
- a poet distinguished by his originalityespe-
cially remarkable, it is said, for a very curious work
on the warlike dances of the Basques, for which
he had a strong predilectionand emphatically
known, among his compatriots, as the Basque
Bard.
The Scientific Congress at Reims assembled, ac-
~.cording to our previous announcement, on the 1st
inst. ; and upwards of one hundred native members,
with many foreigners of distinction, were then in
the town.For the Congress of Scientific Italian
about to assemble at Naples, on the 20th inst., the
President-General, the Marquis San Angelo, has
published a variety of regulations, designed to
simplify the relations of the individuals with the
body, and lighten, as much as possible, for the
occasion, the police regulations applicable to stran-
gers.---While on scientific matters, we may mention
a fact of some especial interest, in view of the pro-
digious demand for iron which the extension of
railway works promises to createthat mines of
that metal, apparently of great richness and extent,
have been discovered in the States of the Church.
We live in what may be called emphatically, the
age of Iron ; hot the name has another meanin~, in
our day, than the mythologieal.Atlseneum, l~
& pt.
Conversations on same of time Old Poets, by J. R.
LOWELL.
THE literature of America still follows in th
footsteps of that of England. What Lamb and
others have done for the popular mind in this
country, the essayists of the United States are now
seeking to do for the growing intelligence of the
New World. They desire to indoctrinate it with
a taste for out old poets, our old dramatists, and
our sterling old writers, whose books, like dreams,
have made the world of many a studious spirit
one and entire, and as of chrysolite, perfect and
pure. Mr. Lowell has earned by his own poems
the right to converse on poetry, and we therefore
willingly listen to his opinions on Chaucer and
Chapman, Marlowe, Shakspeare and Ford, and on
all others whom he may, as he does, collaterally
introduce, whether ancients or moderns. We like
his corollaries for the sake of the omain proposition,
and also for their own. Keats and Tennyson,
Wordsworth and Shelley, are among his idols
but Byron he repudiates. What spirit he i:
of is accordingly so manifest as to need no illus-
tration and imo remark. In disputing with him on
matters of taste, it is not with an individual, but
with a school, that we should be found conflicting;
and the present, therefore, would be an improper
occasion to raise the argument. The trimly cathc;-
lie minds in the world are, of course, few; and, P
the majority of instances, we must be content to
make the best of partial views, and to bring our
own as supplementary where needed. We canno~
quote from the work, for the groumid it traverses is,
in this country, so pr& iccupied, that, notwith-
standing its obvious merits, there is much in it as
tedious as a thrice-told tale. The writer~s
chief fault is, an over refinement and subtlety in
his thoughts and mode of expounding them.
Athenceum.
AN English merchant having built a vessel of
seventy tons, gave the command of it to a Chinese
named Fowqua, to enable him to levy a species of
black mail on the native smuggling-boats engaged
in the opium-trade. Suspicions were excited;
Fowqua was seized by the Chinese authorities and
tortured, and he denounced a hundred persons as
- being implicated in the enterprise. TIlE BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 107
From the Britannia.
Deifys Iris/n Library. The Ballad Poetry of Ire-
land. Edited by CHARLES GAVAN PUFFY, Esq.
J. Puffy. Dublin.
TAKING Mr. Puffys account of the object of this
publication, viz., that of vindicating the character
of the native ballads of Ireland, the book, although
in other respects having many merits, must be
considered a failure. Had its object been to select
for distribution a number of well-finished and care-
fully-polished poetical compositions, breathing in
the majority of cases that air of nationality so touch
in vogtie with Young Ireland, but not having
many of the characteristics, of the real ballad poe-
try aettially current in the country, Mr. Puffy
would have well performed his task. The popu-
lar songs of Ireland, the ballads really sung by the
yeomanry and peasantry, have never found a col-
lector, nor will Mr. Puffys volume in any degree
assist in that object. The popular ballads of all
countries suffer only from attempts to refine them,
and Mr. Puffy gives us one or two so disguised in
improvements as to present a brilliance and
gentility similar to that of some of the old ca-
thedrals of his country with their Gothic orna-
ments brightly glistening under a new coat of
whitewash. The Croppy Boy is evidently
one of the pieces which have fallen into the hands
of the improver; for in Mr. Puffys version the
peasant laments very much in the style of a lacka-
daisical hero of the Surrey theatre, about being
the last of his name and race. (By the way,
we should like to know of what name amongst the
irish peasantry any individual could boast of being
the last, or within ten thousand of the last.) rr~
version of The Croppy Boy really sung in
many parts of Ireland is much more characteristic
than this. There is nothing, for instance, in Mr.
Puffys version to equal the threat of the hero
when about to be transported
And if I iver live to return agin to home,
Oh! I 11 sharpen toy pike upon some orange
bone.
We have looked for this in vain as well as for the
conclusion
In New Genayvay this young man died,
In Nexv Genayvay this young man lies,
All true Roman Catholics, as they pass by,
Say the Lord have marcy on your sowle, my
croppy boy.
Again, although we are presented with a spank
new Nation song, entitled The Nameless One,
by J. P. Fraser, describing England as this country
Is usually described at the Conciliation-hall, there
is not in the book any one of the thousand versions
of the S/nan Von Vacht, the most poptilar of all
the songs of the Irish peasantry, yet there are
tauzas in versions of that song of the highest or-
der of heroical poetry. The demand about the
invasion by the French, for instance
What color will they wearl
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
What color will they wearl
Says the Shan Van Yacht.
What color should be seen
Where our ruined homes have been,
But our own immortal green l
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
The version of The Boyne Water is execrable
trash. There is in it scarcely a stanza of the on-
ginal version, which might have been obtained in
Ulster with very little trouble. We cannot con-
ceive where Mr. Puffy heard of the Orangemen
singing a version which talks of
Venturing over the water.
Venturing is about the last word we fancy
which would be popular amongst the Orangemen
in describing the passage of the Boyne. The por-
tion of original version given in the appendix is
frequently sung in Ulster, with the exception, we
think, of the compliment in the penultimate line
to the mercy of James II. A large selectioii
might have been made from the multitudes of
characteristic Orange ballads which are extant in
Ulster commemorating processions and skirmishes
as well as matters of greater historical interest;
such as a song of The Apprentice Boys, which
we remember to have heard, commencing
We are the boys that fear no noise,
And never will surrender;
We shut the gates of Perry walls
On the eighteenth of Pecember, & c.
The tragedy of The Battle of Aughrim has
not fallen into disuse among the Orangemen, as
Mr. Puffy fancies. It has the rare merit, which
legislative measure nor administration never pos-
sessed, of pleasing both Irish parties; and St.
Ruth and Saarsfield are frequently made in Ulster
barns to speak most exquisite Scotch. Another
Irish song, The Wearing of the Green, might
have very appropriately found a place here. Ihe
original version, (riot Mr. Currans beautiful bal-
lad of the sante name,) is one of the most Irish of
Irish songs; witness
I met Napoleon Bonaparte,
He tuk me by the hand;
Says he, How is ould Ireland,
And how does she stand P
She s thin most unhappy countery
That you have ever seen
For they re hanging men, and women,
For the wearing of the green.
The only really Irish 500g in the volume is Mr.
Lovers Molly Carew. All the others are
written in good wholesome Saxon, with Saxon
idioms and Saxon images; and but for the local
allusions might have been composed anywhere be-
tween Berxvick and the Lands End. The follow-
ing stanzas, however, reveal their origin in every
line
Och hone! by the man in the moon,
You taze me all ways
That a woman can plaze,
For you dance twice as high with that thief, Pat
Magee,
As when you take share of ajig, dear, with mc.
Tho the piper I bate,
For fear the owld cheat
Would nt play you your favorite tune.
And when you re at mass,
My devotion you crass,
For t is thinking of you,
I am, Molly Carew.
While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep,
That I cant at your sweet purty face get a peep.
Oh, lave off that bonnet,
Or else I 11 lave on it
The loss of my wandering sowl
Och hone! weirasthru!
Och hone! like an owl,
Pay is night dear, to me, without you! 108 THE BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND.
Och hone! dont provoke me to do it;
For there s girls by the score
That loves meand more,
And you d look very quare if some morning you d
meet
My wedding all marching in pride down the
strect;
Troth, you d open your eyes,
And you d die with surprise
To think t was nt you was come to it!
And faith, Katty Naile,
And her cow, I go hail,
Would jump if Id say
Katty Naile, name the day,
And tho you re fair and fresh as a morning in
May,
While she s short and dark like a cold winters
day;
Yet if you dont repent
Before Easter, when Lent
Is over, I 11 marry for spite,
Och hone! weirasthru!
And when I die for you,
My ghost will haunt you every night.
By far the finest composition of this collection is
the ballad of Willy Gilliland. It relates to the
period when the Popish Charles H. was servino
the interests of Mother Church with ingenious de-
votion, by persecuting the Protestant Church of
Scotland in the name of the Protestant Church of
England; trying to drive the people out of
Preshytery, which he believed to be heresy, into
Prelacy, which he equally helieved to he heresy.
Willy Gilliland was one of the persecuted fol-
lowers of the Covenant, many of whom took refuge
in the north of Ireland, after the gallant but un-
fortunate fight at Bothwell Brig, and made no un-
worthy addition to a population the most deter-
mined and warlike in the British empire. The
persecution was carried into Ulster, and it is pain-
ful to reflect that bishops, known to posterity by
lasting monuments of piety and learning, did not
hesitate, in those dark days of Protestantism, to
countenance the brutal persecution of the Kirk of
Scotland
Up in the mountain solitudes, and in a rehel
ring,
He has worshipped God upon the hill, in spite of
church and king;
And sealed his treason with his blood on Both-
well-bridge he hath;
So he must fly his fathers land, or he must die
the death;
For comely Claverhouse has come along with grim
Dalzell,
And his smoking rooftree testifies they ye done
thetr errand well.
In vain to fly his enemies he fled his native land;
Hot persecution waited him upon the Carrick
strand;
His name was on the Carrick cross, a price was
on his head:
A fortune to the man that brings him in, alive or
dead!
And so on moor and mountain, from the Lagan to
the Bann,
From house to house, and hill to hill, he lurked
an outlawed man.
* * * * *
His blithe work done, upon a hank the outlaw
rested now,
And laid the basket from his hack, the bonnet
from his brow,
And there, his hand upon the Book, his knee upon
the sod,
He filled the lonely valley with the gladsome word
of God~
And for a persecitted kirk, and for her martyrs
dear,
And against a godless church and king he spoke
up loud and clear.
* *
*
I am a houseless outcast; I have neither bed nor
hoard,
Nor living thing to look upon, nor comfort save
the Lord
Yet was the good Elijah once in worse extremity;
Who succored him in his distress, He now will
st]cc(tr me,
He now will sttccor me, I krtow; and, by His holy
name,
Ill make the doers of this deed right dearly rue
the same.
My bonny mare! Ive ridden you when CIa-
ver se rt)de behind
And from tite thumbscrew and the boot you bore
me like the wind;
And, while I have the life yott saved, on your
sleek flank, I swear,
Episcopalian rowel shall never ruffle hair!
Though sword to wield they ye left inc noneye4
\Vallace wigltt, I wis,
Good battle did on Irvine side wi waur weapoi
than this.
* * * * *
And now the gates are opened, and forth in gal-
lant show
Prick jeering grooms and burghers blythe, and
troopers in a row.
But one has little care for jest, so hard bested
is he
To ride the outlaws bonny mare, for this at last
is she
Down comes her master with a roar, her rider
with a groan,
The iroti and the hickory are through and throttgh
him gone!
He lies a corpse; and where he sat, the outlaw
sits again,
And once more to his bonny mare he gives the
spur and rein;
Then some with sword, and some with gun, they
ride and run amain
But sword and gun, atid whip and spur, that day
they plied in vain!
That the whole of this little volume is not Re-
peal and Romanist ballads is an unexpected cour-
tesy; still it would have been as well to have omit-
ted such doggrel as the glorification over the mas-
sacre of 1641, entitled Rory OMoore. Besides,
the historical introductions are scarcely less
than laughable. They tell us, for instance, that
the charge of rebellion against Hugh ONiall, in
the time of lames I., is now totally dishelieved
and that OMoore, one of the assassins of the Brit-
ish in 1641, was descended of a chieftain slain at
Mullagbmast, a massacre, the story of which was
a pure forgery by Mr. OConnel. The book is got
up very creditably, and it is much better, even
armed with all their poison and falsification, that
the Irish should read such hooks than read no-
thing. MESMERISM. 109
1. Notes on a few more Trials with the Mesmerists
in a second search for clairvoyance, by JOHN
FORBES, M.D.
2. Notes on yet another Trial, by JOHN FORBES,
M.D.
3. Human Magnetism, by W. NEWNHAM, Esq.,
M.R.S.L.
4. The & eress of Prevorst, translated from the Ger-
man, by Mrs. CROWE.
5. & nambulism, translated from the German, by
J. C. COLQUHOUN, Esq., Advocate.
6. Ales risen in Disease, by H. STORER, M.D.
7. A Discussion on MesmerismPhrenology and
Mesmerism, translated from the French.
WE have had enough of clairvoyance for a whole
life; yet nothing in or connected with it has sur-
prised us half so much as the patience of Dr.
Forbes in his endeavors to arrive at, what he calls,
the truthwhich, with us, is only another form
of expression for exposing the fraud. tJui bono?
What good can result? If ever there was a case
that deserved and received respectful attention
it was the Tynemouth affair ;that case, thanks
to Dr. Forbes and Dr. Brown, was thoroughly
sifted: as our readers will rememher there was
not one single assertion in Miss Martineans whole
statement relating to Jane that was not absolutely
disproved by her own witnesses. Did this satisfy
Miss Martinean that she had been imposed on?
Not a bit of it. Well, here again the doctor favors
us with other exposures; one of them so amusingly
conclusive that it is worth recording. George
Goble, copying clerk to a most respectable gen-
tleman in the Temple, (respectable, no doubt
respectable gentlemen and ladies are the tools
~vith which knaves work; as the case of St. John
Long and other Old Bailey records testify. What
indeed is the value of a witness who is not respect-
able?) was discovered to have the faculty of
clairvoyance. Accordingly, at said respectable
gentlemans solicitation, the doctor consented to
be present at a private performance, and was, he
admits, very much astonished, though a little dis-
appointed, at finding that said copying clerk
was an old hand at these tricks, and had formerly
exhibited in public, under both Mr. Vernon and
Mr. Brooks. Georges great feat was seeing
through a solid bodyreading a paper placed in a
card-case, and so forth. The doctor, having been
taken somewhat unawares on this occasion, pro-
posed another performance, which was agreed to;
and he went the second time, accompanied by
Professors Sharpey and Graham. Of course pre-
cautions were now taken, and ii attempt was
made not only to test Georges power hut his hoti-
esty. George, it appeared, when in his mesmeric
trance, was accustomed to throw himself about,
after a strange fashion, on the sofa, and a suspicion
very naturally crossed the doctors mind that, in
this way, he contrived to open the card-case and
read the writing. Mr. Sharpey therefore took
with him a card-case filled with little bits of cork.
George, says the doctor, himself proposed
that, to do away with all possible suspicion of un-
fair play, the card-case should be tied up. Accord-
ingly, George himself tied the, card-case, in the
common cross-fashion, with red tape, & c. George
immediately proceeded to the sofa, and went
through all his wonted manoenvres, pressing the
case to his forehead, and breathing on it with
marvellous energy and unction. lie was evi~ently
in better spirits than during the last experiment,
and openly expressed his conviction that he should
do it this tune. Ihe sub-puivinary moanipula
tions were, of course, not forgotten, and were
closely watched. After a considerable time, and
often-repeated strong action of the hands, percep-
tible through the muscles of the arms, some of our
party had a glimpse of the card-case, under the
edge of the pillow, without its ligature, and of the
ligature without its bo ! Soon after, we were
struck by the sudden and unusual stillness and
tranquillity of George, still prone on his field of
action; his hands remained motionless in their
hiding place, his head and face buried in his pil-
low, and we began to think lie had gone to sleep
when lo! we observed him hurriedly and repeat-
edly putting his fingers to his mouth, as if placing
something therein, arid, almost at the same inn-
ment, we observed some small fragments falling
on the floor beneath the sofa, and exactly below
the place of the pillow! These pri)ved to be frag-
ments of corkmost comminuted, but some still
bearing the characteristic form and dimensions of
those so ingeniously concealed by Dr. Sharpey in
his card-case. Seaching under the pillow, we
found some more of them, and also detected the
hiatus valde deftendus in the sofa, through which
they had found their way to the carpet! The
case was now clear; although George made one
more effort to deceive us by exposing the card-case
above the pillow still tied by the tape, and firmally
by placing it on the floor beneath his masters foot.
But our patience was at last exhausted; we laid
hold of the card-case, and anitouncing Georges
roguery arid its detection, we forced still more of
the unlucky cork-slips from his hands and from his
mouth! Poor George was now fairly beaten
and he knew it; all his cunning and impudence,
and all his magnetism, deserted him at once ; he
woke up in the most natural manner iniaginable,
without any de-mesmerising process, and with
none of that gentle, progressive unlocking of the
senses, exhibited on previous occasions; and throw-
ing himself on his knees on the ground, in an
agony of shame and terror, confessed his roguery,
and implored forgiveness! In doing so, however,
the meek and penitent George, like all other ha-
bitual culprits when detected, of course strenu-
ously asserted that this was his first offence.
The cui bano is again on our lips. Was the re-
spectable gentleman, who desired to seek the
truth, and the truth only, convinced? Why he
forthwith wrote to Dr. Forbes, that George was
not awake when he fell on his knees and made
the confessionthat he subsequently axvakerted
him in due mesmeric form ! that he awoke
in an agony of tears, quite unconscious of what had
passed, and remains so at this moment. Now if
we were to allow this nonsense to l)R55 as true,
how would it affect the question? Was the re-
spectable gentleman hiniself, were Dr. Forbes,
Professors Graham and Sharpey all in a me~meric
trance, when they saw him open the card-case, and
found the fragments of cork in his hands, mouth,
and on the floor? One word at parting: Pr.
Forbes may rest assured that he cannot minister to
riminds so diseasedthat respectable gentlemen
or ladies, when they have eaten of the insane root,
when they have once declared their faith in burn-
bug, are beyond the reach of logic; whether
equally beyond the reach of medicine ~ve shall not
take on ourselves to determine. The attempt,
however, to convince them is not without risk.
Dr. Forbes has himself startled us by the admis 110 AMERICAN FICTION.
sion that reading the words enclosed in these
card-cases would at once establish what is called
clairvoyance ! Now in all good humor we must
observe that there is a lamentable halt in such
reasoningthe reading the words enclosed would
have proved only that George was a cleverer fellow
than the doctor supposed, and able to outwit a
doclor and two professors. Why, we have known
common conjurors who would have been more than
a match for the whole College of Physicians.
Athenceum.
From the Athenaum.
AMERICAN FICTION.
Dashes at Life with a Free Pencil. By N. P.
WILLIs. 3 vols. Lougman & Co.
Twice-told Tales. By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
Vol II. Boston, Monroe & Co.
THAT we have a kindliness for American litera-
ture, the readers of the Athenceum need not now
be told, and what description thereof finds favor
with us, is also known. One Ballad of Cassan-
dra Southwick is, in our estimation, worth a
library of imitations of Moore and copies of Mrs.
Hemans: one Legend of Sleepy Hollow out-
weighs all its tellers treasury of graceful recollec-
tions of Brereton Hall or the Alhambra: one scrap
of Mistress Mary Clavers Rough and Ready
Life in the Backwoods, more precious than whole
all3ums full of London and Paris fashions or fancies.
No offence, then, to the pleasant, dashing style of
Mr. Willisno disparagement of his sketches for
what they profess to be, if we say that they belong
not to our first-class American literature. His
dialogue is brilliant, his descriptions careful and
clever. But he is wrong (for England at least)
in choosing for his scenery the ball-rooms of May-
fair, the green grass of the Chiswick Gardens, and
the starry firmament of the Opera House. We
do not quarrel with him if to his volume these
lines might have been, as motto, affixed:
When the dream of life, from morn to night,
Was Love, still Love !
If his tales are all of susceptible Romeos or selfish
Bertrams, and of ladies who kissed through the
lattice ; the tender passion gets so ill-treated
in these careful days of ours, that we must not
cavil at the artist skilled in its windings, if,
enamored of his subject, lie treats of it somewhat
too frequently. But we should have been grateful
for more fruitage and less flowerwork for more
characters, and fewer charming phrases. We
should have been glad of them, for one selfish rea-
son, if ouly as affording us materials for extract.
These, as matters stand, are somewhat wanting.
Browns day with the Mimpsons is the story
of a citizens genteel wife, entertaining unawares
an angel of an American, who can command
tickets for Almacks. Miss Jones Son is the
farce played off by a London diner-out at Stratford-
upon-Avon. Ernest Clay, a bundle of lost
leaves front the life of a Don Juan. Then there
are one or two Chinese talesbut it is not till we
come near to the close of the second volume that
we have a glimpse of the new country. Some
Passages from a Correspondence (probably
contributed to one of the American periodicals)
contain a few tangible hits, and intelligible hints:
e. g. the following town-pictures
I took a stroll or two while in Boston; and
was struck with the contrast of its physiognomy to
that of New York. There is a look (if staid
respectability and thrift in everything that strikes
the eye in Boston. The drays, carts, oninibuses,
and public vehicles, are well horsed and appointed,
and driven by respectable-looking meu. The peo-
ple are all clad very warmly arid very inelegantly.
The face (if every pedestrian in the street h~s a
marked errand in itgentlemen holding their
nerves to the screw iill they have achieved the
object of being out of doors, and ladies undergoing
a constitutional to carry out a system. There
are IIO individuals in Bostonthey are all classes.
It is a cohesive and gregarious town, and half a
dozen portraits would give you the entire popula-
tion. Every eye in Boston seems to move in its
socket with a checka fear of meeting somethiry
that may offend itand all heads are carried in a
posture of worthy gravity, singularly contagious.
It struck me the very loaves in the bakers win-
dows had a look of virtuous exaction, to be eaten
gravely, if at all. New York seems to me to dif-
fer from all this, as a dish of rice, boiled to let
every grain fall apart, differs from a pot of mush.
Every man you meet with in our city walks with
his countenance free of any sense of observation or
any dread of his neighbor. He has evidently
dressed to please himself, and he looks about with
an eye wholly at ease. He is an integer in the
throng, untroubled with any influence beyond the
risks of personal accident. There is neither
restraint nor curiosity in his look, and he neither
expects to be noticed by the passers-by, nor to see
anything worthy of more than half a glance in the
persons he meets. The moving sights of the city
have all the same integral and stand-alone charac-
ter. The drays, instead of belonging to a company,
are each the property of the man who drives it;
the hacks and cabs are under no corporate disci-
pline, every ragged whip doing as he likes with
his own vehicle; and all the smaller trades seem
followed by individual impulse, responsible to
nothing but police-law. Boston has the advantage
in many things, but a man who has any taste for
cosmopolitism, would very much prefer New York.
* * I strolled up the Broadway between nine
and ten, and encountered the morning tide down;
and if you never have studied the physiognomy of
this great thoroughfare in its various fluxes and
refluxes, the differences would amuse you. The
clerks and workies have passed down an hour be-
fore the nine oclock tide, and the side-walk is
filled at this time with hankers, brokers, and specti-
lators, bound to Wall street; old merchants and
junior partners, bound to Pearl and Water; and
lawyers, young and old, bound for Nassau and
Pine. Alt, the faces of care! The days o~rera-
tions are working out in their eyes; their hats are
pitched fiurward at the angle of a stage-coach with
all the load on the drivers seat, their shoulders
are raised with the shrug of anxiety, their steps
are hurried and short, and mortal face and gait
could scarcely express a heavier burden of solici-
tude than every man seems to hear. They nod to
you without a smile, and with a kind of uncoin-
scious recognition; and if you are unaccustomed
to walk out at that hour, you might fancy that, if
there were not some great public calamity, your
friends, at least, had done smiling on you. Walk
as far as Niblos, stop at the greenhouse there,
and breathe an hour in the delicious atmosphere
of flowering plants, and then return. There is no
longer any particular current in Broadway. For-AMERICAN FICTION.
eigners coming out from the caf6s, after their late
breakfast, and idling up and down, for fresh air;
country people shopping early; ladies going to
their dressmakers in close veils and demi-toilets;
errand-boys, news-boys, dons, and doctors, make
up the throng. Toward twelve oclock there is a
sprinkling of mechanics going to dinnera merry,
s~~ort-jacketed, independent looking troop, glancing
gaily at the women as they Ilass, and disappearing
around corners and up alleys, and an hour later
Broadway begins to brighten. The omnibuses go
along elopty, and at a slow pace, for people would
rather walk than ride. The side streets are tribu-
taries of silks and velvets, flowers and feathers, to
the great thoroughfare; and ladies, whose proper
mates (judging by the dress alone) should be lords
and princesand dandies, shoppers, and loungers
of every description, take crowded possession of
the pav6. At nine oclock you look into the
troubled faces of men going to their business, and
ask yourself to what end is all this burden of
care V and at two you gaze on the universal prodi-
gality of exterior, and wonder what fills the mul-
titude of pockets that pay for it! 1he faces are
beautiful, the shops are thronged, the side walks
crowded for an hour, and then the full tide turns,
and sets upward. The most of those that are out
at three are bound to the upper part of the city to
dine; and the merchants and lawyers, excited by
collision and contest above the depression of care,
join, smiling, in the throng. The physiognomy
of the crowd is at its brightest. Dinner is the
smile of the day to most people, and the hour ap-
proaches. Whatever has happened in stocks or
politics, whoever is dead, whoever ruined since
morning, Broadway is thronged with cheerful
faces and good appetites at three! The world
will probably dine with l)leasure up to the last day
perhaps breakfast with worldly care for the fu-
ture on doomsday morning !
To sum up: the realities of these volumes lie in
their last forty pages, where a few poems are col-
lected. We cannot treat the verses which follow
as make-believe. They will have a place among
the Poems of the Heart
THOUGHTS WHILE MAKING THE GRAVE OF A NEW-
BORN CHILD.
Room, gentle flowers! my child would pass to
heaven!
Ye lookd not for her yet with your soft eyes,
O watchful ushers at Deaths narrow door!
But lo! while you delay to let her forth,
Angels, beyond, stay for her! One long kiss
From lips all pale with agony, and tears,
Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire
The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life
Held as a welcome to her. Weep! oh mother!
But not that from this cup of bitterness
A cherub of the sky has turnd away.
One look upon thy face ere thou depart!
My daughter! It is soon to let thee go
My daughter! With thy birth has gushd
spring
I knew not offilling my heart with tears,
And turning with strange tenderness to thee
A loveoh God ! it seems sothat must flow
Par as thou fleest, and twixt heaven and me,
Henceforward, be a bright and yearning chain
Drawing me after thee! And so, farewell!
T is a harsh world, in which affection knows
No place to treasure up its lovd and lost
But the foul grave! Thou, who so late wast
sleeping
Warm in the close fold of a mothers heart,
Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving
But it was sent thee with some tender thought,
How can I leave theehere! Alas for man
The herb in its humility may fall,
And waste into the bright a~d genial air,
While weby hands that ministerd in life
Nothing but love to usare thrust away
The earth flung in upon our just cold bosoms,
And the warm sunshine trodden out forever!
Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child,
A bank where I have lain in summer hours,
And thought 110w little it would seem like death
To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook,
Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps
That lead tip to thy bed, would still trip on,
Breaking the dead hush of the mourners gone
The birds are never silent that build here,
Trying to sing down the more vocal waters:
The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers,
And far below, seen under arching leaves,
Glitters the warm sun on the village spire,
Pointing the living after thee. And this
Seems like a comfort; and, replacing now
The flowers that have made room for thee, I go
To whisper the same peace to her who lies
Robbd of her child, and lonely. T is the work
Of many a dark hour and of many a prayer,
To bring the heart. back from an infant gone.
Hope must give oer, and busy fancy blot
The images from all the silent rooms,
And every sight and sound familiar to her
Undo its sweetest linkand so at last
The fountainthat once struck, must flow forever,
Will bide and waste in silence. When the smile
Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring
Wakens the buds above thee, we will come,
And, standing by thy music-haunted grave,
Look on each other cheerfully, and say,
A child that we have iovd is gone to heaven,
And by this gate of flowers she passd away!
And now, a word of friendly welcome to Mr.
Hawthorne. We have already so often expressed
our pleasure in his gem-like tales (being the first,
we believe, to recommend them to the notice of
En rrlish tale-readers)that none, we apprehend,
will mistake for covert censure the recomutenda-
tion we must now give him on the appearance of
this second volumeto beware of monotony. We
do not say this because he chiefly loves the by-
gone times of New Englandnor, because of his
maumfest propensity towards the spiritual and
supernatural (few since Sir Walter Scott telling
a ghost-story so gravely well as Mr. Haw-
thorne) ; and we love the dreamy vein of specula-
tion in which he indulges, when it is natural ; not
entered dramatically and of good set purpose
by those who think that mohled queen is good,
and fantasy a taking device to entertain and engage
an audience. But we comiceive our author to be a
retired and timid man, who only plays on his two,
strings because be lacks courage or energy to.
master a third. We have thus given him the sup-.
port of friendly counsel, and have only to observe~
that his second volume of Twice-told Tales~
would be equal to his first, were it not too closely
like it.
111BRITISH COMBiNATION AGAINST THE AMERICAN UNION.
From the Spectator.
BRITISH COMBINATION AGAINST THE AMERI
CAN UNION.
THE Reverend Henry C. Wrights reclamation
against, our comments on his call upon the people
of Britain to combine for the dissolution of the
American Uni n a previous page,)
that no on, (printed
contains argument: his letter is mere assertion
he thinks thus and wills thus, and assump-
tion that his dicta are the dicta of Christianity.
Though it is not easy from so illogical and de-
clainatory a piece of composition to gather with
certainty what the positions are that the writer
intends to maintain, they appear to he thesethat
every government which tolerates slavery ought
to be put down; that a citizen of that government
ci)mbinii)g with foreigners to put it down incurs
no moral culpability; and that governments can
be put down by mere talking, without force or
bloodshed.
Every government that tolerates slavery ought
tu be put down.So long as men confine them-
selves to abstractions, ther~ is scarcely any propo-
sition, however practically mischievous, that may
not be made plausible. Let this axiom be applied
to a specific case; for example, the United States.
The constitution of the Union is far from perfect,
but this at least niay without exaggeration be said
in its favor: It has been, (except in occ4sional
moments of excitement, which will occur in all
countries,) found sufficient to enforce the neces-
sary regulations of internal police, and to enable
every man to enjoy his property in tranquillity; it
has hitherto sufficed to protect the nation from
external aggression ; tinder and through its foster-
ing influence, literature and science have flour-
ished, and education has been widely dissemi-
nated; a rare spirit of energy and enterprise has
been developed among the citizens. These are no
mean blessings to owe to a frame of government:
and on the other hand, it must be consideredif
this government be put down, what other can be
established in its place? The constitution of the
United States has been a necessary emanation of
the society out of and for which it was framed; no
such constitution as Franklin, or Washington, or
Hamilton could have wished, but such as the ma-
terials t.hey had to work upon enabled them to put
together. If Mr. Wright had it in his power to
dissolve the Union to-morrow, he could not guar-
antec the substitution of any other government.
Defacto, then, his cry for its dissolntion is, in plain
English, Cast to the winds all the benefits we
derive from our existing frame of government, in
order to get rid of an oppressive anomaly which is
confined to a portion of the Union, and even there
leaves a lar~e enjoyment of these advantages.
Mr. Wright would deal with governments as the
mniralists of the reign of George the Third with
menthey could devise no means to prevent stetal-
ing but the gallows; he can devise no means to
reform one bad institution but the breaking up of
the whole social compact.
The citizen of a government tainted with slave
institutions may combine with foreigners toput
down that government. This vague generality
must also be tried by the test of a special applica-
tion. If true, the American Abolitionist may in-
nocently combine with foreigners to compel his
fellow-citizens to alter their institutions. Mr.
Wright, when he attempts to argue, shrinks from
this broad application of his own principle. He
says he knows the sensitiveness of American
slaveholders to the moral and religious senti-
ment of mankind. If they are so sensitive, an
apl)eal from this country against slaveholding
might possibly have some effect; but an appeal
from this country to another portion of the Union
to dissolve the established government would not
carry with it the general sentiments of mankind,
and would raise resistance instead of shame. Mr.
Wright deals in ambiguities: he reconimends a
combination of foreigners to dissolve the Union;
he advances one argument to prove that foreigners
may usefully express their reprobation of a specific
law of the tTnion ; and then he mainlains that lie
has proved his case. He has said nothing t~
prove that foreigners are competent to decide on
the best frame of government for a nation ; and,
having failed in this, he has not shown that any-
thing but evil can come out of their intermeddliii
The sentiment of nationality rests upon and
strengthens a principle of reason. The maxim
that foreigners ought not to meddle wimla the, inter-
nal politics of any state, has, like every sotind
principle of government, been adopted from a con
viction of its utility. If the men who live under a
government and feel its pressure do not know how
to better themselves, what chance is there that
men at a distance, unacquainted with all its de-
tails, shall be able to accomplish the task? Be-
sides, once admit the primiciple that foreigners may
combine to alter the constitution of a state because
they disapprove of one of its laws or institutions,
where are we to stop? The Russian may com-
bine to dissolve the Union because lie disapproves
nif its want of an emperor; the A merican to revo-
lutionize England because he thinks monarchy an
evil. Under the specious pretext of refbrm, the
old bad system, (not yet entirely abolished,) of
each government supporting underk nd the politi-
cal minorities of neighbor states, in order to keep
their rulers busy at home, would revive with fresh
vigor.
Governments can be put down by mere talk-
ing, without bloodshed.To call Mr. Wrights
flourish about Christian and bloodless means
mere verbiage, implied no doubt of the power
of Christian principle, if he can so convince the
reason and mould the sentiments of individuals as
to make real Christians of them, of course they
will relinquish slaveholding and all other bad
practices. But this is not what he proposes. He
calls upon others to combine to force the slave-
holders to adopt a policy which their own convic-
tions do not dispose them to adopt. The course
he proposes aims not at conviction, but at compul-
sion. It is true that few reforms have been ac-
c?mpl ished by convincing governments; compul-
sion, either by actual violence or a demonstration
of superior force, has been required : and while
even partial reforms have required to be so ex-
torted, entire revolutionsand the proposal to dis-
solve the American Union contemplates nothing
lesshave only been accomplished by actual force
and bloodshed.
Mr. Wright says he will not notice our personal
allusions to himself: it would be difficult to notice
allusions that were never made. Of Mr. Wright
we know iiothing; and we spoke only of the class
to which he either belongs already or is ambitious
of belonging. Our remarks had no other object
than the exposure of false and mischievous poli~
tics; the assertion of the sound doctrine that com-
binations act and do not teach; and that each na
112NEW LOCOMOTIVE AGENCYSUBLIME, AND SOMETHING MORE.
tion is the best and ought to be the sole judge of
the form of government most conducive to its
peace and prosperity. The most immediate prac-
tical application of this doctrine is, that such of
our own countrymen as are kept restless by an
uneasy redundance of philanthropic sentiment will
find enough of wrong to redress and suffering to
remove in our own communitywithin the sphere
of their own knowledge; and that by setting out
Quixote fashion on a crusade against oppression
in America, they are more likely to do harm than
good, by meddling with matters they can but im-
perfectly understand.
NEW LOCOMOTIVE AGENCY A letter from
Philadelphia, published in the M6morial de Rouen,
has the following : William Evans has resolved
a problem, which must overturn our present sys-
tem of railway and steamboat propulsion. By
means of enormous compression, he has succeeded
in liquefying atmospheric air and then, a few
drops only of some chemical composition, poured
into it, suffice to make it resume its original vol-
ume with an elastic force quite prodigious. An
experiment, on a large scale, has just been made.
A train of twenty loaded wagons was transmit-
ted a distance of sixty miles, in less than an hour
and a quarterthe whole motive power being the
liquid air inclosed in a vessel of two gallons and a
half measure; into which fell, drop hy drop, and
from minute to minute, the chemical composition
in question. Already, subscriptions are abundant,
and a society is in course of formation. The in-
ventor declares, that an ordinary packet-boat may
make the passage from Philadelphia to Havre in
eight days, carrying a ton of his liquid air. A
steam engine, of six-horse power, will produce
that quantity in eight hours.According, then,
to this project, and another referred to elsewhere
in our columns, we are to correspond with Amer-
ica in an hour, and reach it in a week! On this
new solution of the theory of motion by expansion,
the Journal des D& ~ats has some remarks, which
we will adopt : This account of the liquefaction
of atmospheric air, given in a private letter, the
source of which is but vaguely indicated, seems to
need the authentic confirmation of the American
journalsand at any rate of details somewhat
more circumstantial. Not that the fact is theo-
retically impossible; all known experiments on the
compression of air tending to establish the proba-
bility of its liquefaction. But one cannot help
asking under what intensity of force it has been
producedwhether the agent be a steam-engine,
or any other compelling power l Carbonic gas has
been liquefied, under a pressure of thirty atmo-
spheres, and solidified in the form of ice, under
the pressure of forty. But that gas is denser and
heavier than airits constituent atoms more close,
and consequently more easy of condensation. Al-
ready, both in England and France, conclusive ex-
periments have been made as to the possibility of
propelling trains by the expansive force of com-
pressed air; the objection and difficulty consists in
the necessity of establishing steam, or other en-
gines, at repeated distances, to fill with compressed
or liquefied air the recipients destined to be placed
on the locomotives instead of the steam-cylinder.
That cost and difficulty have, hitherto, prevented
the application of the system of compressed air.
It is greatly to be desired, then, that the problem
in question may have been solved in America;
but we must have more full and sure particulars
before the scientific or manufacturing world can
venture to believe it. What ~eems more extraor-
dinary than the liquefaction itself, is the assertion
that this air can be contained in a cask, like any
other liquidknowing as we do that it can only
be maintained, in that state, in recipients of extra-
ordinary resistance. Our readers will remember
the accident which happened in Paris, at the
School of Pharmacy, on the occasion of the lique-
faction of carbonic gas. A metallic cylinder of
great thickness, which had, two or three times
previously, resisted the same experiment, sudden-
ly exploded; when one of the operators was killed,
and several of the assistants were wounded. Now,
air has a resisting and elastic force far greater
than that of carbonic acid. Neither is the neces-
sity intelligible of that drop of a nameless chemi-
cal agent, for the purpose of restoring to the air
its expansive action ; since, for that purpose, it
will suffice to open it an issueunless, indeed, it
is pretended to reduce the air to the condition of
a permanent liquidand that no natural philoso-
pher will believe, till he has seen it.Athena?um.
SUBLIME, AND SOMETHING MOaE.
IT is amusing, when the over-righteous are sur-
prised into the very offence which they rebuke.
Nothing pleases an audience at the play better
than the prude detected in a levity, the ascetic in
a fit of tipsiness, Joseph Surface with the little
French milliner behind the screen. When the
Reverend Mr. Richards talks of adultery and
other sins, of which we are all guilty, one begs
him to speak for himself: but, no doubt, we have
all trespassed, we all have owned a grudge against
some solemn lecturer on our erroneous little sallies
and sweet is the revenge of seein~ him stumble.
A pleasant instance occurred at an assize-town
lately. A Mr. William Taylor, who, it seems,
unites in his own person arts and commerce, was
witness in a case before Mr. Justice Cressvvell.
When he entered the witness-box, he was asked the
usual question, What are you ? He answered,
that he was a painter; and, being landlord of a
public house, he added, that he was also a pub-
lican and sinner. Perhaps he thought his devo-
tion to lucre in such a channel rather derogatory
to the higher art, and therefore disguised his reply
in that facetious form. But his pleasantry could
not be tolerated : the awful voice of Justice cried
from the bench, What doyou say you are?
The smile died away on Mr. Taylors lipspale-
ness and blushes strove for the empire over his
humorous hut humbled countenance, as ho repeat-
ed the now distasteful and melancholy joke, A
publican and sinner. The thoughtless audience
had laughed before; but now the words fell in the
midst of a stern silence. What must have been
their surprise when the judge rejoined
But we must prepare the reader for the rejoin-
der. There is a word never uttered to ears polite
save by the licentious poets. Even they some-
times veil it, like the decorously prosy, in peri-
phrasis or equivoque; as where Shakspeare, a
very profane writer, makes the ghost in Hamlet
say, I am forbidden to tell tile secrets of the
prison-house. But often this writer is less dis-
creet, and writes the word outright ; as where he
makes Richard of Gloucester say, iDown, down
to hell, and say I sent thee there. Indeed, he
113114 ~SITE-REFUSING ~ THE CROSS IS BENDING.
uses that word so often, that the references to it
in Mrs. Cowden Clarkes closely-packed Concord-
ance to Shakspecre occupy an octavo column and a
half!one hundred and fifty-one times does it
occur, as Mrs. Cowden Clarke records; to say
nothing of the passage in which the word is dis-
guised as prison-house. In common parlance,
we (taking the we in Mr. Richards compre-
hensive and impersonal sense) use some different
word for disguise ; saying, for instance, if some
insolent companion utters a niaiserie, Go to
Bath.
Now, when Mr. Taylor faltered, the second
time, that he was a publican and sinner, Mr.
Justice Cresswellwhat he meant we leave the
reader to guess, only repeating his wordstre-
mendous Justice Cresswell exclaimed, If you
hegin your evidence in that manner, I will send
you to a place appointed for sinners! Spectator.
~SITE-REFUSING.~~
LIKE that Yankee who challenged his foe to
walk off the Exchange at New York arm-in-arm,
the Free Church of Scotland has rushed into a
suicidally false position, and has provoked the
landlords to do the same. The church requires
sites for buildings devoted to its worship: a rea-
sonable enough demand, but it is so put as in-
evitably to provoke refusal. It is put as a kind of
divine right, to he allowed under pain of denun-
ciation for impious tyrannya sort of excommu-
nication or moral outlawry ; and, possessing some
share of spirit, the Scotch landlords withhold obe-
dience from a body whose divine right they can-
not possibly recognize. For the Presbyterians
among the landlords, excepting the comparatively
few who have gone with the Secession, must
needs regard the Free Church as having with-
drawn from the body that is really the depository
of divine Kuthority, and as having therefore re-
linquished its divine right; while the Episcopa-
lians will be still more apt to regard the Free peo-
ple as schismatic stragglers from the Catholic
Christian Church.
Practically inconvenienced by the refusal, and
still more exasperated by the denial of authority
in such a matter, the Free Church appeals to the
state to sustain its right. The claim is one that
it would be dangerous and inconsistent for the
state to enforce. A well-ordered state will hes-
itate before it snatch from the subject his private
property on any score, but still more when it is
not asked for state purposes. For when the
Scotch Free Church withdrew from its connexion
with the state, it voluntarily hecame less a public
than a private body; relinquishing prerogative
as well as stipend. That private body, a congre-
gation of Presbyterian Dissenters, demands a
piece of land, to purchase; the landowner refuses
to sell ; and for the state to interfere, rendering
the will of one private interest absolute against
another, would be to sanction a principle not ad-
mitted into our political system. The landlord
perhaps is unreasonable in refusal; but he has
the rrrright to do it , and the law is superior to
Queen, Lords, and Commons. If, indeed, the
Free Church allege that such a law is bad, and
that it is better for all to retain a common interest
in the land, much may be said in support of such
a theory: but then, it must not deal denunciation
against Communists and Fourierists; f& r other
theories necessarily follow the admission of that
theories far wilder than Chartism. To recog-
nize its plea would be revolution.
On the other hand, it is true that congregations
stand and worship in the open air because lhey
have not churches to cover their heads. It is
true that the followers of that faith cannot obtain
for their ark an abode upon the land. Their irri-
tation at the slight put upon their religious class
a slight personally felt, and most keenlyborrows
enthusiasm and justification froni their sacred vo-
cation, and their rage becomes a holy furor.
There they stand, whole congregations, in trouble,
hurt and angered, suffering in the name of their
faith. Such men, whether they mean it or not,
are revolutionists. And accordingly, the languagr~
of the Free Church leaders is that of revolulion.
It is a language held by a large part of the Scot-
tish people. That is surely not a safe state of
things.
If, therefore, their demand is one which it is not
safe to enforce with the power of the state, so
neither is it one which it is safe to refuse. And
the landlords, forming the class of all others most
interested in the peace of the country, and, from
their education and power, the class most morally
responsible for the peace, seem to be awakening
to the hazard of their antagonist position. They
are beginning to feel the force of the maxim utter-
ed to quarrelling children, that the most sensible
always gives up first.Spectator, 6 Sept.
From a~ Irish Paper.
~THE CROSS IS BENDING.
THE following ideas were suggested to my mind
by a friend reciting a passage in a speech delivered
ata Wesleyan Missionary meeting, by Mr. Dixon,
of Sheffield. The passage alluded to was founded
on an Eastern opinion, that as midnight passes, the
sign (or constellation in the heavens) called the
cross, inclines toward the earth. Mr. D. took
occasion to apply it in a very beautiful manner to
the state of the heathen world, showing that there
are various indications of the midnight of heathen-
ism having already passed, the cross becoming
more conspicuous through the instrumentality of
missionary labor, or, to carry out the figure, bend-
ing toward them. While I acknowledge the
source when I ubtaine~l the idea, I must remar~t
that I have taken the liberty of applying it in an
experimental way to the various circumstances of
the Christian.
A traveller in eastern climes
Pursued his course oer deserts dreary,
His way he knew not, nor the time
Of night; and he was faint and weary.
He turned him to his Moslem guide,
And asked the hour, the sign portending;
Be of good cheer, the Turk replied,
For midnight~s past the cross is bending.
And am I not a traveller too,
Oer deserts drear my course pursuing,
Till I the better country view,
And mount above earths burning ruin l
And have I not a guide to tell
The hour, while onward I am tending
In deepest gloom to cry, All s well;
Midnight is pastthe cross is bending l
O yes! I still am travelling on
From earth to heaven my pathway steering, THE SPIRIT TRYST. 115
With scarce a star to gaze upon
No sound of comfort ever hearing,
Save when my souls True Light I see,
And hear His voice from heaven descending,
Hold on thy way, and trust in me;
Thy midnight s pastthe cross is bending.
Whereer I turn my eye abroad,
And see a world in Satan lying,
The wise by wisdom know not God,
The foolish in their folly dying
My heart is pained, and bleeds to see
Mans fallen race to ruin tending;
Till faith, believing prophecy,
Cries, Midnight s pastthe cross is bending.
When earthly cares my breast invade,
And cloud my anxious brow with sorrow,
I cling to hope, but half afraid
To think upon the coming morrow;
I turn me to my heavenly Guide,
And on his counsel still depending,
Trust in his love ; am satisfied
That Midnight s pastthe cross is bending.
When forced to part from those most dear,
And roam oer earth a hapless stranger,
Lifes nomejous ills alone to bear,
Inured to toil, and pain, and danger;
When unbelief cries out, Give up
The figlitt is all in vain contending ;
Jesus sweet voice inspires the hope
That Midnight ~ pastthe cross is bending.
When conscious of my natures guilt,
My soul feels bowed beneath the burden,
I look to him whose blood was spilt
On Calvarys cross to buy my pardon:
On Calvary s blood-stained cross I see
Mercy with justice sweetly blending;
That sight, my soul! proclams to thee,
Thy midnight s pastthe cross is bending.
And if, when lifes last pulses beat,
And flesh and heart are fast decaying,
And Satans rage doth sore beset,
I can but hear my Saviour saying
As thy day is thy strength shall be;
One struggle more, and all is ended
My soul from sin and suffering free,
Shall shout, Nights pastthe cross bath
bended.
A COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER.
Redditch, Worcestershire, May, 1844.
From Frasers Magazine.
RHYMES OF THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS.THE
SPIRIT TRYST.
HAIJO off, hand off your hands, Jeanie,
I canna bide at hame;
And wha wad miss me frae the warld
The last o Tullochs name I
I haena kith nor friend, Jeanie,
Except it be yousel;
I canna win the bread I eat,
I am sae sma and frail.
My hand is weak to shear, Jeanie,
My foot is weak to fauld,
A sickly bairn, and motherless,
And barely twelve year auld.
Ye maunna hand me back, J~anie,
Frae ganging out the nicht,
Ye dinna ken wha cam to me
Yestreen at gloamin licht.
A wee bit lamb had faan, Jeanie,
And slippit i the burn,
Sae in my breast I carried it,
A shiverin through Glen Dearn;
When by the Drumlie Linn, Jeanie,
My mother stoppd my way,
I droppd the lammie to my feet,
I clean forgot to pray.
Wi grand and solemn mien, Jeanie,
She waved her arm to me,
I kennd it was my mothers sel
By the love was in her ee.
She waved her arm to me, Jeanie,
Syne faded into air;
Gin ye sold chain rue to the hearth,
I must and shall be there.
Then dinna baud m~ back, Jeanie,
Ye canna thwart my fate,
The spirit that appoints xvi man
Will find him sune or late.
Young Jeanie sighed to hear her speak,
But sought her mood to turn,
And aye she daffed and dawted her
To keep her frae Glen Dearn;
And aye she tauld her blythest tale,
And sang her blythest sang,
To wile awa the midnicht hours
1he midnicht hours sae lang.
But she has closed her weary ee,
For fast the lassies fled,
Her coats up-kilted to her knee,
Her plaid about her bead.
And fast did Jeanie follow her,
But a pursuit was vain;
The lassie to the spirit tryst
Alang the burn has gane.
Sair feard was Jeanie for the tryst,
Sair feard was she to turn,
She waited on a licbtsoine field,
Abune the dark Glen Dearn.
A lichtsome field of fragrant hay,
Fresh heapd beneath the moon,
Where she had lilted a the day,
The lang, bricht day o June.
The burnie, like a petted bairn,
Lay whimperin in its bed;
A hapt about wi sloes and fern,
Wi rowans archd oerhead.
It was an eerie place by day,
An eerier place by nicht;
The Drumlin Lion, sae chilly gray,
Was never glad wi licht.
Now while she lookd, and while she list,
On you hayfield abune,
A cauld wind took her cre she x4ist,
A cloud oerlap the moon.
And frae the burn a sound arose,
0 waefu water wraith,
Like widow mournin in her woes,
Or captive in his death. 116 IBRAHIM.
Puir Jeanie signed the holy cross,
That waefu sound to hear;
And a the trees began to toss
Their shudderin arms for fear.
Then moving in the black ravine,
Appeard twa yellow lichts,
Sic as on marshes cheat the een,
And scare the herd o nichts.
The yellow lichts gaed ower the burn,
And up the rowan brae,
They didna miss a single turn
Of a the trodden way.
By mony a siller-footed birk,
Oer ti]fts o heather sward,
They flitted past the solemn kirk,
Intill the green kirkyard.
They stoppd beside a mossy mound
That heaved oer Mhairis mother;
And then within the damp cold ground
Did vanish, one and other.
And loudly did the burnie shriek,
And loudly roared the blast
And upon Jeanies pallid cheek
The blinding rain fell fast.
Oh, fearfullie she turnd her hame,
Sae drookit, cauld, and wae,
Nor sleep upon her eyelids came
Until the break o day!
Nor lang she slept when by her bed
A voice o sadness cried
And when she raised her aching head,
Pale Mhairi stood beside.
I hae kept the spirit tryst, Jenaie
I hae seen my mothers face;
She met at the haunted hour,
And at the haunted place.
I wasna feard to look, Jeanie,
She seemd sae new frae heaven;
Her words o mournfu tenderness,
For ill were never given
She said, This life is vain, Mhairi,
And griefs await my child;
And gin ye were as snow is pure,
As snow yed be defiled.
Oh, sleep wi me at rest, Mhairi!
Wi that she took my hand
Ye shanna see the levin-cloud
Shoot death upon the land.
Ye shanna see the tears, Mhairi,
And bluid fa doon thegither:
Ye shanna hear the coronach
Upon the blasted heather.
Wi that she let me gae, Jeanie,
I fell in deepest swound,
And when I waked the sun was high,
And weet wi rain the ground.
The wrist she held is black, Jeanie,
As lvi an iron grasp;
I didna feel she hurted me,
It was a mothers clasp.
Ye see she cas me hame, Jeanie,
I am content to gang,
A thing sae feckless i the warld,
Was never sent for lang.
I hae na walth o gear, Jeanie,
To will for love o thee,
I haena but my mothers cross,
0 carvdd ebonie.
Oh, wear that carv~d cross, Jeanie!
Ill spirits aye twill chase,
T will join your kindly thochts o me
To thochts o heavenlie grace.
And cover me in the mools, Jeanie,
Frae the cauld, and frae the care.
The lassie sighed, and laid her doon,
And word spake never mair.
The bonnie bairn sae early taen,
Was dear to a the lave;
There never went a sadder train,
Than bore her to her grave.
Slow, slo~v they went across the burn,
And up the rowan brae,
They didna miss a single turn
Of a the trodden way.
By mony a sillerfooted birk,
Oer tufts of heather sxvard,
They bore her past the solemn kirk,
Intill the green kirk-yard.
They stopped beside a mossy mound
That heaved oer Mhairis mother,
They laid the lassie in the ground,
To sleep, the one wi other.
But Jeanie lived to see the strife
Of the Stewarts dying blow,
A childless and a widowed wife,
To weep Cullodens woe.
IBRAiiist.Among the multitude of royal and re-
markable men whom peace and its facilities, have
brought as visitors to our sea-girdled, but no longer
sea-locked, island, few will have excited more interest
and curiosity h~ n the soldier, Ibrahimwhose sword
helped to cut off a horn of the Crescent, and from its
monstrous cantle to carve out an empire fur that
half-sage half-savage, Mehemet Ali. Ibrahiin, the
hero of a hundred tales, is one of those men whose
place in the imagination of the looker-on from afar is
not reckoned by the number of his tails. No doubt,
the scenery of his exploits helps the singular impres-
sion which he makes. With Egypt and Syria for
his back-around, his figure, like his fathers, stands
in a strange and mysterious relief. His banner waves
in the shadow of a darker desert than even war can
make, and his march to modern empire is over the
graves of empires past. Ages look down, from the
pyramid, on the infant sovereignty, to repeat the mag-
nificent figure of Napoleon, and the sword of the
Pacha is helping to solve the riddle of the Sphynx.
Mehemet, himself is like one standing between the
living and the dead. Slowly and wearily, do what
he will, dawns up over the ruins, moral and natural,
of a perished world, the new civilization. Amid its
faint and fitful efforts, he is, himself, like Janus, with
two aspects-now looking over to Europe, and catch-
ing its light upon his facenow turning back to the
wilderness, and hiding his features in the gloom of
the barbarian past. It is felt,by all men, that the
empire which his race have won, and are winning,
has been, and has to be, wrested as much from the
desert as from the TurkThe health of this prince
has been, for some time, failing; and his malady,
thounh not understood to be dangerous, is attended
with much suffering. Accordingly, he is sent from
the Abanas amid Pliarpars of the East, to seek a far
Jordan in Italy ;and after passing the winier at the
waters of Tuscany ,~ intends, it is said, to visit us, in
the spring. He will be an object of great attraction
amongst us, we doubt notin spite of some of his
deeds, and because of othersunless Mehemet, him-
self, or the Grand Turk comes over, to make a diver-
sion.Athea~um.JOURNALS OF EXPEDITIONS OF DISCOVERY IN AUSTRALIA. ii?
EYRE S JOURNALS OF EXPEDITIONS OF DIS
COVERY IN AUSTRALIAA~
THERE are, correctly speaking, two works in
these volumes. The Journals of the Expeditions
and the notes on the Manners and Customs of the
Aborigines treat of different subjects, and in a
different manner: the chapters are also separately
numbered. They require to be considered apart.
The Journals of the Expeditions possess a hu-
man interest, in which the works of recent trav-
ellers, overlaid with an ostentatious display of
learning or science, are rather deficient. The
author tells a plain unvarnished tale: he does not
seek to obtrude his own person, or to magnify or
embellish his exploits and adventures. But his nar-
rative of what he did and overcame is more like
the stirring stories of Park and Bruce than the
tame and bookish diffuseness of modern travellers.
Mr. Eyre, as the title-page informs us, was sent
out by his fellow-colonists with the sanction of the
local government. But the direction of the expe-
dition was fixed in accordance with his representa-
tions. Having travelled repeatedly over-land from
Liverpool Plains to Adelaide and from Sydney to
Port Philip and Adelaide, penetrated further north
from Adelaide in a direct line than any previous
explorer, and examined a considerable part of
Western Australia, Mr. Byre had come to the
conclusion that most light would be thrown on the
conformation of the Australian continent by a jour-
ney to its centre, and that Adelaide was the most
favorable starting-point for an expedition having
that olsject in view. His energetic advocacy of
such an enterprise diverted the attention of the
colonists from another expedition on which they
were earnestly bent. lie was appointed to com-
mand a party despatched to plant the I3ritish flag
in the centre of Australia, and if possible to cross
thence to Port Essington. Mr. Eyre devoted
himself and his property to the task. lie broke
up his station and of the whole money raised to
fit out the expeditiona large sum for so young a
settlementone half was paid out of his own
pocket.
In the prosecution of the enterprise, Mr. Eyre
showed that the enthusiasm which had spurred
him on to undertake it was combined with judicious
foresight, and with an impassioned perseverance,
which grew more earnest and resolute as obsta-
cles and hindrances gathered round him. it is
from his simple, unostentatious statement of what
was done and suffered, that we gather this. He
tnrned his steps at first to the north. The country
immediately to the north of the head of Spencers
Golf he found even more desolate than was antici-
pated; and his progress in that direction was effect-
ually checked at six degrees of latitude north from
Adelaide, by the anomalous crescent-formed de-
pression of the earths surface, filled apparently
with sludge, to which the name of Lake Torrens
has been given. The peninsula hemmed in by
this Syrtis of modern Australia xvas explored by
Mr. Eyre with patient energy. Moving his party
successively to those points where water and grass
could be obtained, he took upon himself the part
* Journals of Expeditions of Discovery into Central
Australia, and Over-land from Adelaide to King Georges
Sound, in the -ears 1840-I, sent t)y the Colonists of South
Australia, with the sanction and so p port of the Govern-
ment including an Account of the Manners and Customs
of the AhoriAnes and the State of their Relations with
Europeans. By Edward John Eyre, Resident Magistrate,
Murray River.
of pioneer; and, accompanied only by a native
boy, explored the waste hundreds of miles ahead
of him on every side, being sometimes weeks
away front his companions. Finding advance in
this direction impossible, he crossed the peninsula
behind Port Lincoln, with a view to advance west -
ward along the coast and penetrate inland at the
first practicable opening. As he held (41 this
course, the information of the natives that no water
or trees were to be found inland, corroborated by
the burning winds that came from the north-east.
convinced him that an Australian Sahara wa.
interposed between him and the point he wished
to reach. Thrice he attempted to tuin the heed
of the great Australian ilight ; nod thrice the
desert and sultry region drove him back, xvitli the
loss of his best horses. At last lie succeeded
but, from the character of the country beyoiid hini,
it was evident that the party -with its drays could
not penetrate it. iDeterniined not to return to
Adelaide a baffled man, yet equally resolute not to
endanger others unnecessarily, he sent back to the
colony the whole of his companions except three
native lads who might be supposed familiar xviii
such a country, and his faithful overseer, and pre-
pared to push onwards to King Georges Sound.
It is obvious that when his companions carried this
intelligence to Adelaide, the governor and all the
colonists regarded the project as conceived in the
phrensy of disappointed ambition. With the gen-
erous humanity which animates Governor Gawler,
Mr. Scott was despatched in the government cot-
ter to convey to Mr. Eyre expressions of We
fellow-colonists conviction that he had done all
that man could do, and to entreat him not to throv
away his life. But it is characteristic of Mr. Byte.
that resolutions of xxhichu most men would only he
capable under strong excitement, are with him
adopted in cool blood and by calculation. He had
made an estimate of his own forces aiid of the
ol)stacles in the way; and the event proved, that in
coming to the conclusion he could overcome them.
he had not overvalued himself. With his reduced
train he pushed onwards. They had to pass over
tracts in which no water and only scanty supplies
of dry withered grass were to be found for hun-
dreds tif milesand the season was midsonimer,
within six degrees of the tropic. His oversee -
wavered, but Mr. Byre never quailed. IJnxvhole-
some food brought on alarming sickness; his only
civilized attendant was niurdered by two of his
native attendants, and they carried off most of the
fire-arms; the faith of the reInaining native was
more than questionable: st-ill Mr. Eyre held on
undaunted. His ciiurage and self-possession cotii-
manded success. In Rossiter Bay, he was received
with (hisiliteresied and unbounded hospitality by the
captain of a French whaler; who, apprehensive
of a war between his country and oursfor even
to those distant regions the reckless intrigues of
Thiiers and Palmerston had carried alarmen-
treated, as the sole expression of Mr. Byres
gratitude, that when he reached the English set-
tlements he would not niention that there was a
French whaler off the coast. Reinvigorated by
the kindness and liberality of Captaiii Rossiter,
Mr. Eyre, with his native attendant, reached King
Georges Souiid with comparative ease, and there
terminated a journey of a thousatid miles along an
inhospitable and almost inaccessible coastthe last
perilous adventure, the climax of the privations of
a years wandering in the deserts of Australia.
The observatiutis made by Mr. Eyre in the dar118 JOURNALS OF EXPEDITIONS OF DISCOVERY IN AUSTRALIA.
ing jdurney afford grounds for hope that the jute-
nor of the mysterious continent he skirted will
soon he unveiled. The journeys of Oxlcy, Sturt,
Cunningham, and Mitchell, have made us familiar
with the south-east corner of Australia, and the
e(lges of the desert which seems to separate it
from the interior. Governor Greys examination
of the west and north-west coasts has revealed the
~1most impossibility of penetrating from that side.
The want of a settlement as a point dappui on
ihe north or north-east coast forbids the hope of
;~nything being speedily accomplished from that
qearter. In so far as mere distance is concerned,
Adelaide is unquestionably the most favorable
tarting-point for an advance into the interior; and
~{r. Eyre, hy his pertinacious effirts to penetrate
Ia the northward, and hy the perseverance with
which he has prowled alonE the edge of the desert
to the east and to the west in search of an open-
ing, has collected such indications as denote almost
with certainty the points whence it is possihle to
advance, and the character of the country beyond.
Lake Torrens appears to he impassable; and thus
five degrees of latitude are hermetically sealed.
Between the Darling and the eastern extremity of
this mass of sludge, there appears the apex of a
rising country, over which it may he possible to
pass northward; and this route is at present ex-
plored hy Captain Sturt, the father of Australian
discovery, the generous promoter of the views of
Mr. Eyre. From the western extremity of Lake
Torrens to the western side of the Great Bight
a distance of eight degrees of longitudethe
reports of the natives, and the hoJ~ suffocating
north-east winds, indicate a belt of low arid des-
ert between the coast and the interior. But to the
westward of this unpromising region, the appear-
ance of flocks of fat parrots, the direction of the
storms, and cold hreezes from the north-east, indi-
cate an elevated and not unfertile region. Expe-
ditions landing on the neighborhood of Cape Arid
would have a fair prospect of heing ahle to turn
the flank of the desert on the west; as Captain
Sturt, hy the latest intelligence, appears to he in
a fair way of turning it on the east; and thus
reasonable hopes are held out that an availahle
interior will he discovered. Any vessel employed
to land the exploring party about Cape Arid would
nd anchorage, plenty of fish, fresh water, and
fire-wood, with a soil and climate favorable to the
formation of gardens, ahout Rossiter Bay. By an
exhaustive process Mr. Eyre has shown all the
points at which the continent cannot be penetrated;
a most important though too often an undervalued
service.
The interest of Mr. Eyres book is not exclu-
sively derived from the personal adventures of
which it is a narrative. The same charm certainly
does not attach to the deserts of Australia as to
the daserts of Africa and Asia, in themselves
equally repulsive. There is no human interest
attaching to Australia. The hearsay notices hy
Ilerodotus and the Arahs of the middle ages, of
cities and wealth lying beyond the Sahara, lent to
the exploration of that waste the charm of solving
a riddle; and every baffled traveller lost in the
desert, or returning successless, heightened the
eagerness to unriddle it. The remains of pillared
temples and cities on the edges of the deserts of
Meroe and Persia, the history of Cyrus and Alex-
ander the Great, nay, the legends of Mandeville
and the Arahian Nights F threw
he color of imagination over the wastes of Eastern
Africa, the high a rid salt-plains of Media, and the
low sultry salt-plains of Turkistan. But Austra-
lia has for us no history and no traditions, and its
few straggling aboriginal tribes are in too low a
stage of civilization to awaken spontaneous sym-
pathy. Still, natural phenomena and traits of
human character did present themselves to our
traveller, which heighten the interest of his pages.
But the striking scenery and natural phenomena
of the country traversed, it must he confessed, arc
more interesting than the inhabitants. Mr. Eyre,
who for old acquaintance-sake is attached to the
latter, argues hard to raise them in our estimation
and it must he admitted that he makes out an
ingenious case for them; as also that his view a
respecting the most just and humane method of
dealing with them are eminently practical as well
as humane. Still there is no denying that it costs
us an effort to take an interest in those imperfect
specimens of humanitythat they are rather ob-
jects of curious and pitying inquiry than of syn~-
pathy. In his notes on the Manners and Customs
of the Aborigines, Mr. Eyre has ably though
rather diffusely pleaded their cause. In all that
he says of them he has our hearty concurrence:
the only defect of this part of his work is, that,
concentrating his attention on the natives, he
scarcely makes the same liberal and philosophical
allowance for the shortcomings of the uneducated
class of settlers.
A few specimens may help to realize the char-
acter and contents of this hook still more to our
readers; hut nothing short of a perusal of the
volumes can enable them fully to appreciate it.
A ROBINSON CRUSOE ADVENTURE.
I occupied myself in writing and charting
during the day, and at night amused myself in
taking stellar ohservations for latitude. I had
already taken the altitude of Vega, and deduced
the latitude to be 32~ 3 23 5.; leaving my arti-
ficial horizon on the ground outside whilst I
remained in the tent waiting until Altair came to
the meridian, I then took my sextant and went out
to observe this star also; but upon putting down
my hand to take hold of the horizon-glass in order
to wipe the dew off, my fingers went into the
quicksilverthe horizon-glass was gone, and also
the piece of canvass I had put on the grotind to lie
down upon whilst observing so low an altitude as
that of Vega. Searching a little more, I missed
spade, a parcel of horse-shoes, an axe, a tin dish,
some ropes, a grubbing-hoe, and several smaller
things which had been left outside the tent, as net
being likely to take any injury from the damp. It
was evident I was surrounded by natives, who hal
stolen all these things during the short time I heal
been in my tent, certainly not exceeding half
hour. The night was very windy, and 1 had
heard nothing; besides, I was encamped in tie
midst of a very dense brush of large wide-spread
ing tea-trees and other bushes, any of which would
afford a screen for a considerable number 01
natives. * * *
As soon as I missed my horizon-glass, au(l
entertained the suspicion of natives being about,
I hurried into the tent, and lighting a large blue
light, ran with it rapidly through the bushes around
me. The effect of this was very beautiful amidst
the darkness and gloom of the woods, and for a
great distance iii every direction objects could he
seen as well as by day: the natives, however,
were gone; and I could only console myself byJOURNALS OF EXPEDITIONS OF DISCOVERY IN AUSTRALIA. ii~
firing a couple of balls after them through the
underwood, to warn them of the danger of intrud-
ing upon me again. I then put everything which
had been left outside into the tent, and kept watch
for an hour or two; but my visiters came no more.
* * *
Rising very early, I set to work with an axe to
clear away the hushes from around my tent. 1
now discovered that the natives had been concealed
behind a large tea-tree not twenty yards from the
tent: there were numerous foot-marks there, and
the remains of fire-sticks which they had hrought
with them, for a native rarely moves at night
without fire.
THE 5YRTIS OF AUSTRALIA.
I penetrated into the basin of the lake for
about six miles, and found it so far without surface-
water. On entering at first, the horses sunk a
little in a stiff mud, after hreaking through a white
crust of salt, which everywhere coated the surface,
and was about one-eighth of an inch in thickness:
as we advanced, the mud hecame much softer, and
greatly mixed with salt-water below the surface,
until at last we found it impossible to advance a
step further, as the horses had already sunk up to
their bellies in the bog, and I was afraid we never
should he able to extricate them and get them
safely back to the shore. Could we have gone on
for some distance, I have no doubt that we should
have found the bed of the lake occupied by water,
as there was every appearance of a large body of
it at a few miles to the west. As we advanced,
a great alteration had taken place in the aspect of
the western shores. The bluff rocky banks were
no longer visible, but a low level country appeared
to the view at seemingly about fifteen or twenty
miles distance. From the extraordinary and de-
ceptive appearances, caused hy mirage and refrac-
tion, however, it was impossihle to tell what to
make of sensible objects, or what to believe on the
evidence of vision; for, upon turning hack to re-
trace our steps to the eastward, a vast sheet of
water appeared to intervene between us and the
shore, whilst the Mount Deception ranges, which
I knew to be at least thirty-five miles distant,
seemed to rise out of the bed of the lake itself, the
mock waters of which were laying their base, and
reflecting the inverted outline of their rugged
summits. The whole scene partook more of en-
chantment than reality; and as the eye wandered
over the smooth and unbroken crust of pure white
salt which glazed the basin of the lake, and which
was lit up hy the dazzling rays of a noonday sun,
the effect was glittering and brilliant beyond con-
ception.
UNINTENTIONAL PROVOCATION OF THE NATIVES.
Had the natives been away, we could have
buried the baggage, and left the dray; but as it
was, we had only to wait patiently, hoping they
would soon depart. Such, however, was not their
intention: there they sat, coolly and calmly facing
and watching us, as if determined to sit us out.
It was most provoking to see the careless indiffer-
ence with which they did this, sheltering them-
selves under the shade of a few shrubs, or lounging
about the slopes near us, to gather the berries of
the mesemb~ryanthemum. I was vexed and irri-
tated beyond measure, as hour after hour passed
away and our unconscious tormentors still re-
mained. Every moment as it flew lessened the
chance of saving the lives of our horses; and ~et
I could not bring myself to abandon so many things
that we could not do without, and which we could
not in any way replace. What made the circum-
stances, too, so much worse, was that we had last
night given to our horses every drop of water,
except the small quantity ptit apart for our break-
fasts. * * *
A movement was now observed amono the
natives; and, gathering up their spears, they all
went off. Having placed the native boy upon an
eminence to watch them, the man and I at once set
to work to carry our baggage to the top of a sand-
hill, that it might be buried at some distance from
the dray. We had hardly commenced our labors,
however, before the boy called out that the natives
were returning ; and in a little time they all occu-
pied their former position. * *
Strongly as our patience had been exercised
in the morning, it was still more severely tested in
the afternoon : for eight long hours had those na-
tives sat opposite to us watching. From eight in
the morning until four in the afternoon, we had
been doomed to disappointment. About this time,
however, a general movement again took l)l~ce:
once more they collected their spears, shouldered
their wallets, and moved off rapidly aud steadily
towards the south-east. It was evident they had
many miles to go to their encannpment; and I now
knew we should be troubled with them no more.
THOUGHTLESS PROVOCATION SY THE WHITES.
At the time when I left the dep6t on the 11th
August, in giving the overseer general directions
for his guidance, I had among other matters re-
quested him, if he found any natives in the neigh-
borhood, to try and get one up to the camp and
induce him to remain until my return, that we
might, if possible, gain some information as to the
nature of the country or the direction of the waters.
In endeavoring to carry out my wishes, it seems
he had one day come across two or three natives
in the plain; to whom he gave chase when they
ran away. The men escaped; but he came up
with one of the females, and took her a prisoner
to the camp, where he kept her for a couple of
days, but could gain no information from her: she
either could not be understood, or would not tell
where there was water, although when signs were
made to her on the subject she pointed to the east
and to the north-west. After keeping her for two
days, during which, with the exception of being a
prisoner, she had been kindly treated, she was let
go, with the present of a shirt and haiidkerchief.
it was to revenge this aggression that the natives
had now assembled. * * *
The ntimber of natives said to have been seen
altogether, including women and children, was
between fifty and sixty; and thouph they had yet
actually committed no overt act against us, with
the exception of trying to steal upon myself and
the native boy as we returned, yet they had estab-
lished themselves in the close vicinity of our en-
campment, and repeatedly exhibited signs of defi-
ance, such as throwing dust in the air, shouting
and threatening with their weapons, and once or
twice, the evening before my arrival, crossing
within a very short distance of the tents, as if for
the purpose of reconnoitring our position and
strength. I determined, however, nothing hut the
last extremity should ever induce me to act on the
offensive.
FAHILY AFFECTION OF THE NATIvES.
Not far from the spring, I discovered a poor
emaciated native, entirely alone, without either 120 PARTS ACADEMY OF SCIENCES.
food or fire, and evidently left by his tribe to per-
ish there: he was a very aged man, and from hard-
ship and want was reduced to a mere skeleton.
How long he had been on the spot where we found
him, I had no means of ascertaining, but probably
for some time, as life appeared to be fast ebbing
away; he seemed almost unconscious of our pres-
ence, and stared upon us with a vacant unmeaning
gaze. The pleasures or sorrows of life were for-
ever over with him: his ease was far beyond the
reach of human aid, and the probability is that he
died a very few hours after we left him.
Such is the fate of the aged and helpless in
savage life: nor can we wonder that it should be
so, since self-preservation is the first law of nature,
and the wandering native, who has to travel always
over a great extent of ground to seek for his daily
food, could not obtain enough to support his exist-
ence if obliged to remain with the old or the sick,
or if impeded by the incumbrance of carrying them
with him. Still I felt grieved for the poor old
man we had left behind us; and it was long before
I could drive away his image from my mind, or
repress the melancholy train of thoughts that the
circumstance had called forth.~
NATIVE GRATITUDE.
During the day, Wylie had caught two opos-
sums; and as these were entirely the fruit of his
own labor and skill, I did not interfere in their
disposal: I was curious, moreover, to see how far
I could rely upon his kindness and generosity,
should circumstances ever compel me to depead
upon him for a share of what he might procure.
At night, therefore, I sat philosophically watching
him whilst he proceeded to get supper ready, as
yet ignorant whether I was to partake of it or not.
After selecting the largest of the two animals, he
prepared and cooked it, and then put away the
other where he intended to sleep. I now saw that
he had not the remotest intention of giving any to
me, and asked him what he intended to do with
the other one. He replied, that he should be
hungry in the morning, and meaiit to keep it until
then. Upon hearing this, I told him that his
arrangements were very good; and that for the
future I would follow the same system also, and
that each should depend upon his own exertions
in procuring food ; hinting to him, that as he was
so much more skilful than I was, and as we had
so very little floor left, I should be obliged to
reserve this entirely for myself, but that I hoped
he would have no difficulty in procuring as much
food as he required. I was then about to open
the flour-bag and take a little out for my supper;
when he became alarmed at the idea of gettiiig no
more, and stopped me, offering the other opossum,
and volunteering to cook it properly for me.
Trifling as this little occurrence was, it read tue a
lesson of caution, and taught me what value was
to be placed upon the assistance or kindness of my
companion, should circumstances ever place me in
a situation to be (lependent upon hirmi. I felt a
little hurt, too, at experiencing so little considera-
tion from one whom I had treated with the greatest
kindness, and who had beeii clothed and fed upon
my bounty fqr the last fifteen months
NATIVE DELICACIES.
I persuaded one of the natives, named Wil-
guldy, an intelligent cheerful old man, to accom
pany us as a guide; and as an inducement, had
him mounted on a horse, to the great admiration
and envy of his fellows, all of whom followed us
011 foot, keeping up in a line with the dray through
the scrub, and proctiring their food as they weiit
alongwhich consisted of snakes, lizards, guanas,
bandicoots, rats, wallabies, & c., & c.: aiid it was
surprising to see the apparent ease with which,
in merely walking across the country, they each
procured an abundant supply for the day. In one
place in the scrub we came to a large circular
mound of sand, about two feet high and several
yards in circumference : this they immediately
began to explore, carefully throwing away the
sand with their hands frotri the centre, until they
had worked down to a deep narrow hole, round
the sides of which, and embedded in the sand,
were four fine large eggs nif a delicate pink color,
and fully the size of a goose-egg. I had often
seen these hills before, but did not know that they
were nests, and that they contained so valuable a
prize to a traveller in the desert. The eggs were
presented to me by the natives; and when cooked
were of a very rich and delicate flavor. The nest
was that of a wild pheasant, (Leipoa,) a bird of
the size of a hen-pheasant of England, and greatly
resembling it in appearance and plumage. These
birds are very cautious and shy, and run rapidly
through the underwood, rarely flying unless when
closely pursued. The shell of the egg is thin and
fragile; and the young are hatched entirely by
the heat of the sun, scratching their way out as
soon as they are born; at which time they are
able to shift for themselves.Spectator.
PARIS ACADEMY OF SCIENCES. August 11.
M. Tourasse gave an account of some experiments
made by him, with a new mode of silvering look-
ing-glasses, and by which he obtains the same re-
sult as by the present mercurial process, without
any of its inconveniences and danger to the health
of the workman. His process consists in dissolv-
mug nitrate of silver in distilled water, adding to it
alcohol, ammonia, carbonate of ammonia, and es-
sential oil of cassia, and pouring the liquid thus
prepared on the ,jass, adding, at the moment of
the operation, some essential oil of cloves. By
the expiration of two hours, the silver, reduced by
these essential oils, covers the glass with a homo-
geneous coating of ptire silver.M. Dujardin, the
inventor of an electrical telegraph, submitted a
plan for rendering this invention valuable as a
means of indicating the precise position of a rail-
way train upon different parts of the line. He
proposes, that, as the locomotive passes by certain
places, it shall touch a spring in connection with
the wire, and thus communicate with the index
of the station by certain signs previously agreed
uponA letter was received from M. Coulvier-
Gravier, confirming the assertion that the night
of the 9th of August is remarkable for the im-
mense number of shooting stars that are to be
seen. On Saturday night he counted no less than
517 between nine oclock and three in the morn-
ing .A letter was received from M. Carbonel, irt
which he asserts that he has discovered the means
of producing oyster-beds in fresh-water ponds and
basins; so that every man who has a few feet of
ground to spare for the construction of a basin,
may always obtain fresh oysters !Atkeneum. MARGARET OF VALOIS. 121
From Blackwoods Magazine.
MARGARET OF VALOlS.
ON the eighteenth day of August, 1572, a great
festival was held in the palace of the Louvre. It
was to celehrate the nuptials of Henry of Na-
varre and Margaret of Valois.
This alliance between the chief of the Protest-
ant party in France, and the sister of Charles IX.
and daughter of Catharine of Medicis, perplexed,
and in some degree alarmed, the Catholics, whilst
it filled the Huguenots with joy and exultation.
The king had declared that he knew and made no
difference between Romanist and Calvinistthat
all were alike his subjects, and equally beloved by
him. lie caressed the throng of Jinguenot nobles
and gentlemen whom the marriage had attracted
to the court, was affectionate to his new brother-
in-law, friendly with the Prince of Cond~, almost
respectful to the venerable Admiral de Coligny, to
whom he proposed to confide the command of an
army in the projected war with Spain. The chiefs
of the Catholic party were not behind-hand in fol-
lowing the example set them by Charles. Catha-
rine of Medicis was all smiles and affability; the
Duke of Anjon, afterwards Henry III., received
graciously the compliments paid him by the Hu-
guenots themselves on his successes at Jarnac and
Moncontour, battles which he had won before he
was eighteen years old; Henry of Guise, whose
reputation as a leader already, at the age of two-
and..twenty, almost equalled that of his great
father, was courteous and friendly to those whose
deadly foe he had so lately been. The Duke of
Mayenne and the Admiral, the Guise and the Con-
were seen riding, conversing, and making
parties of pleasure together. It was the lion lying
cown with the lamb.
On the twenty-second of August, four days after
the marriage, in which the Huguenots saw a
uarantee of the peaceful exercise of their reli-
gion, the Admiral de Coligny was passing through
the street of St. Germain lAuxerrois, ~vhen he
was shot at and wounded by a captain of petardiers,
one Maurevel, who went by the name of Lc Tueur
du Roi, literally, the Kings Killer. At midnight
on the twenty-fourth of August, the tocsin sound-
ed, and the massacre of St. Bartholomew began.
It is at this stirring period of French history,
abounding in horrors and bloodshed, and in plots
and intrigues, both political and amorous, that
M. Alexandre Dumas commences one of his most
recently published romances. Beginning with the
marriage of Henry and Margaret, he narrates, in
his spirited and attractive style, various episodes,
real and imaginary, of the great massacre, from
the first fury of which, Henry himself, doomed to
death by the remorseless Catharine de Medicis,
was only saved by his own caution, by the inde-
cision of Charles IX., and the energy of Margaret
of Valois. The marriage between the King of
Frances sister and the King of Navarre, was
merely one of convenarmce, agreed to by Henry for
the sake of his fellow Protestants, and used by
Catharine and Charles as a lure to bring those
of the religion, as they were called, to Paris,
there to be slaughtered unsuspecting and defence-
tess. Margaret, then scarcely twenty years of
age, had already made herself talked of by her
intrigues; Henry, who was a few months younger,
but who, even at that early period of his life, pos-
sessed a large share of the shrewdness and pru-
dence for which his countrymen, the B6arn~se,
Lxxv. LIVING AGE. VOL. Vii. S
have at all times been noted, was, at the very time
of his marriage, deeply in love with the Baroness
de Sauve, one of Catharine de Medicis ladies, by
whom he was in his turn beloved. But although
little affection existed between the royal pair, the
strong links of interest and ambition bound them
together; and no sooner were they married than
they entered into a treaty of political alliance, to
which, for some time, both steadily and truly ad-
hered.
On the night of the St. Bartholomew, a Hugue-
not gentleman, the Count Lerac de la Mole, who
has arrived that day at Paris with important letters
for the King of Navarre, seeks refuge in the apart-
ments of the latter from the assassins who pursue
and have already wounded him. Unacquainted,
however, with the Louvre, he mistakes the door,
and enters the apartment of the Queen of Navarre,
who, seized ~vith pity, and struck also by the youth
and elegance of the fugitive, gives him shelter,
and herself dresses his wounds, employing in his
behalf the surgical skill which she has acquired
from the celebrated Ambrose Par6, whose pupil
she had been. One of the most furious of La
Moles pursuers is a Piedinontese gentleman, Count
Hannibal de Coconnas, who has also arrived that
day in the capital, and put up at the same hotel
as La Mole. When the latter is rescue.d by Mar-
garet, Coconnas wanders through Paris, killing
all the Huguenots he can findsuch, at least, as
~vill defend themselves. In a lonely part of the
town he is overpowered by numbers, and is rescued
from imminent peril by the Duke of Guises sister-
in-law, the Duchess of Nevers, that golden-haired,
emerald-eyed dame, of whom Ronsard sang
La Duchesse de Nevers
Aux yeux verts,
Qui, 5005 leur paupi~re blonde,
Lancent sur nous plus d6clairs
Que ne font vingt Jupiters
Dans les airs
Lorsque Ia temp~te gronde.
To cut the story short, La Mole falls violently
in love with Margaret; Coconnas does the same
with the duchess; and these four personages play
important parts in the ensuing narrative, which
extends over a space of nearly two years, and into
which the author, according to his custom, intro-
duces a vast array of characters, for the most part
historical, all spiritedly drawn and well sustained.,
1\I. Dumas may, in various respects, be held up as
an example to our history spoilers, self-styled
writers of historical romance, on this side the
chanitel. One does not find him profaning public
edifices by causing all sorts of absurdities to pass,
and of twaddle to be spoken, within their precincts;.
neither does he make his kings and beggars, high-
born dames and private soldiers, use the very same
language, all equally tame, colorless, and devoid.
of character. rfhe spirited and varied dialogue
in which his romances abound, illustrates and
brings out the qualities and characteristics of his-
actors, and is not used for the sole purpose of
making a chapter out of what would be better told.
in a page. In many instances, indeed, it would
be difficult for him to tell his story, by the barest
narrative, in fewer words than he does by pithy
and pointed dialogue.
As the sole means of placing his life in corn--
parative safety, henry abjures the Protestant
faith, and remains in a sort of honorable captivity
at the court of France, suspected by Charles and 122 MARGARET OF VALOIS.
detested by Catharine, to whom R6n6 the Floren-
tine, her astrologer and poisoner, has predicted
that the now powerless prince of Navarre shall
one day reign over France. Some days have
passed, the massacres have nearly ceased, and the
body of Admiral de Coligny, discovered amongst
a heap of slain, has been suspended to the gibbet
at Moutfaucon. Charles IX., always greedy of
spectacles of blood, proposes to pay a visit to the
corpse of his dead enemy, whom he had called
his father, and affectionately embraced, upon their
last meeting previous to the attempted assassina-
tion of the admiral by Maurevel, an attempt insti-
gated by Charles himself. We will give the
account of this visit in the words of M. Dornas.
It was two in the afternoon, when a long train
of cavaliers and ladies, glittering with gold and
jewels, appeared in the Rue St. Denis, displaying
itself in the sun between the sombre lines of
houses, like some huge reptile with sparkling
scales. Nothing that exists at the present day
can give an adequate idea of the splendor of this
spectacle. The rich silken costumes, of the most
brilliant colors, which were in vogue during the
reign of Francis I., had not yet been replaced by
the dark and graceless attire that became the
fashion in Henry IJI.s time. The costume of the
reign of Charles IX. was perhaps less rich, but
more elegant than that of the preceding epoch.
In the rear, and on either side of this magnifi-
cent procession, came the pages, esquires, gentle-
men of low degree, dogs and horses, giving the
royal train the appearance of a small army. The
cavalcade was followed by a vast number of the
populace.
That morning, in presence of Catharine and the
IDuke of Guise, and of Henry of Navarre, Charles
rthe Ninth had spoken, as if it were quite a natu-
ral thing, of going to visit the gibbet at Montfao-
con, or, in other words, the mutilated body of the
admiral, which was suspended from it. Henrys
first impulse had been to make an excuse for not
Joining the party. Catharine was looking out for
this, and at the very first word that he uttered
expressive of his repugnance, she exehaned a
glance and a smile with the Duke of Guise.
Henry, whom nothing escaped, caught both smile
and glance, underwent them, and hastened to cor-
rect his blunder.
After all, said he, why should I not go?
I am a Catholic, and I owe as much to my new
~religion. Then addressing himself to the king:
Your majesty may reckon upon me, said
he; I shall always be happy to accompany you
~wherever you go.
In the whole procession, no one attracted so
much curiosity and attention as this king ~vithout
a kingdom, this Hoguenot who had become Cath-
olic. His long and strongly marked features, his
somewhat common tourraure, his familiarity with
his inferiorsa familiarity which was to be attrib-
uted to the habits of his youth, and which he
carried almost too far for a kingcaused him to
be at once recognized by the spectators, some of
whom called out to him To mass, ilenriot, to
mass!
To which Henry replied,
I was there yesterday, I have been there to-
day, I shall go again to-morrow. Ventre-saint-
gris! I think that is enough.
As for Margaret, she was on horsebackso
beautiful, so fresh and elegant, that there was a
perfect chorus of admiration around her, sonic few
notes of which, however, were addressed to her
companion and intimate friend, the Duchess of
Nevers, who had just joined her, and whose snow-
white steed, as if proud of its lovely burden, tossed
its head, and neighed exultingly.
Well, duchess, said the Queen of Navarre,
have you anything new to tell me?
Nothing, madam, I believe, replied Henri-
ette. Then, in a lower tone, she added And
the Huguenot, what is become of him?
He is in safety, replied Margaret. And
your Piedmonrese hero? Where is he?
He insisted upon being one of the party, and
is riding M. de Nevers charger, a horse as big as
an elephant. He is a superb cavalier. I allowed
him to come, because I thought that your Hugue-
not pror6g6 would be still confined to his room,
and that consequently there could be no risk of
their meeting.
Ma foi! replied Margaret, smiling; if he
were here, I do not think there would be much
danger of a single combat. The Huguenot is very
handsome, but nothing elsea dove, and not an
eagle; he may coo, but he will not bite. After
all, added she, with a slight elevation of her
shoulders, we perhaps take him for a Hugue-
not, whilst he is only a Brahmin, and his religion
may forbid his shedding blood. But see there,
duchessthere is one of your gentlemen, who will
assuredly be ridden over.
Ah! it is my hero ! cried the duchess;
look, look !
It was Coconnas, who had left his place in the
procession in order to get nearer to the Duchess
of Nevers; but, at the very moment that he was
crossing the sort of boulevard separating the street
of St. Denis from the faubourg of the same name,
a cavalier belonging to the suite of the Duke of
Alen~on, who had just come up, was run away
with by his horse; and, being unable imutediately
to check the animal, came full tilt against Cocon-
nas. The Piedmontese reeled in his saddle, and
his hat fell off. He caught it in his hand, and
turned furiously upon the person by whom he had
been so rudely, although accidentally, assailed.
Good heavens ! said Margaret, in a whisper
to her friend, it is Monsieur de Ia Mole!
That pale, handsome young man ? cried the
duchess.
Yes; he who so nearly upset your Piedmon-
tese.
Oh ! exclaimed the duchess, something
terrible will happen! They recognize each other.
They had done so. Cocounas dropped the bridle
of his horse in surprise at meeting with his former
acquaintance, whom he fully believed he had killed,
or at any rate disabled for a long time to come.
As to La Mole, when he recognized Coconnas, a
flush of anger overspread his pallid countenance.
For a few seconds, the two men remained gazing
at each other with looks which made Margaret and
the duchess tremble. Then La Mole, glancing
around him, arid understanding, doubtless, that the
place was not a fit one for an explanation, spurred
his horse, and rejoined the Duke of Alen~on. Co-
connas remained for a moment stationary, twisting
his mustache till he brought the corner of it nearly
into his eye, and then moved onwards. -
Ha ! exclaimed Margaret, with mingled scorn
and vexation; I was not mistaken then. Oh,
this time it is too bad ! And she bit her lips in
anger. MARGARET OF VALOIS. 123
He is very handsome, said the duchess, in a
tone of commiseration.
Just at this moment the Duke of Alen9on took
his place behind the king and the queen-mother;
so that his gentlemen in order to follow him, had
to pass Margaret and the Duchess of Nevers. As
La Mole Went by, he removed his hat, bowed low
to the queen, and remained bareheaded, waiting
till her majesty should honor him with a look.
But Margaret turned her head proudly away. La
Mole doubtless understood the scornful expression
of her features; his pale face became livid, and he
rasped his horses mane as if to save himself from
falling.
Look at him, cruel that you are, said Henri-
ette to the queen; he is going to faint.
Good! said Margaret, with a smile of im-
mense contempt. Have you no salts to offer
him ~
Madame de Nevers was mistaken. La Mole re-
covered himself, and took his place behind the
Duke of Alen9on.
The royal party continued to advance, and pres-
ently came in sight of the gallows at Montfaucon.
The King and Catharine of Medicis were followed
by the Dukes of Anjon and Alen~on, the King of
Navarre, the Duke of Guise, and their gentlemen;
then came Margaret, the Duchess of Nevers, and
the ladies, composing what was called the queens
flying squadron; finally, the pages, esquires,
lackeys, and the peoplein all, ten thousand
souls. The guards, who marched in front, placed
themselves in a large circle round the enclosure in
which stood the gibbet; and on their approach, the
ravens that had perched upon the instrument of
death flew away with hoarse and dismal croakings.
To the principal gallows was hanging a shapeless
mass, a blackened corpse, covered with mud and
cmagulated blood. it was suspended by the feet,
for the head was wanting. In place of the latter,
the ingenuity of the people had substituted a bun-
dle of straw, with a mask fixed upon it; and in the
mouth of the mask some scoffer, acquainted with
The admirals habits, had placed a toothpick.
It was a sad and strange sight to behold all
These elegant cavaliers and beautiful women pass-
mug, like one of the processions which Goya has
imamnted, under the blackened skeletons and tall
grin a gibbets. The greater the mirth of the visit-
ors, the more strikin~ was the contrast with the
mournful silence and cold insensibility of the
corpses which were its object. Many of the party
supported with di iculty this horrible spectacle
and Henry of Navarre especially, in spite of his
pow ers of dissimulation and habitual command
over himself, was at last unable to bear it longer.
lie took, as a prctext; the stench emitted by these
human remains; and al)proachiub Charles, who,
with Catharine of ~ edicis, had paused before the
body of the admiral
Sire, said he, does not your majesty find
that the smell of this poor corpse is too noxious to
he longer endured?
Ha ! think you so, Harry ? cried Charles,
vhose eyes were sparklin0 with a ferocious joy.
Yes, sire.
Then I am not of your opinion. Time body of a
(1cad enemy always smells well.
By my faith! sire, said Monsieur de Tavan-
nes, your majesty should have invited Pierre
Ronsard to accompany us on this little visit to the
admiral; he would have made an impromptu epitaph
on old Gaspard.
That will I make, said Charles. And after
a moments reflection, Listen, gentlemen, said
he
Ci-git, mais cest mal entendo,
Pour lui he mnot est trop honnete,
Ici lamiral est pendu,
Par les pieds, ~. faute de tate.
Bravo! bravo ! cried the Catholic gentlemen
with one voice, whilst the converted Huguenots
there present maintained a gloomy silence. As to
Henry, he was talking to Margaret and the
Duchess of Nevers, and pretended not to hear.
Come, sir, said Catharine, who, in spite of
the perfumes with which she was covered, began
to have enou~h of this tainted atmosphere
Come, sir, said she to the king, the best
of friends must part. Let us bid adieu to the
admiral, and return to Paris.
And bowing her head ironically to the corpse by
way of a farewell, she turned her horse and re-
gained the road, whilst her suite filed past the
body of Coligny. The crowd followed the caval-
cade, and ten minutes after the kings departure,
no one remained near the mutilated body of the
admiral.
When we say no one, we make a mistake. A
gentleman, mounted on a black horse, and who,
probably, during the stay of the king, had been
unable to contemplate the disfigured corpse suffi-
ciently at his ease, lingered behind, and was amus-
ing himself by examining, in all their details, the
chains, irons, stone pillars, in short, the whole
paraphernalia of the gibbet, which, no doubt, ap-
peared to him, who had been but a few days at
Paris, and was not aware of the perfection to
which all things are brought in the metropolis, a
paragon of hideous ingenuity. This person was
our friend Coconnas. A womans quick eye had
in vain sought him through the ranks of the caval-
cade. Monsieur de Coconnas remained in admira-
tion before the masterpiece of Enguerrand de
Marigny.
But the woman in question was not the only
person who sought Coconnas. A cavalier, remark-
able for his white satin doublet, and the elegance
of his plume, after looking before him, and on
either side, had at last looked back and perceived
the tall form of the Piedmontese, and the gigantic
profile of his horse, sharply defined against the
evening sky, now reddened by the last rays of the
setting sun. Then the gentleman in the white
satin doublet left the road which the cavalcade was
followin~, struck into a side path, and describiub
a curve, returned towards the gibbet. He had
scarcely done this, when the Duchess of Nevers
approached the Queen of Navarre, and said
We were mistaken, Margaret, for the Pied-
montese has remained behind, and Monsieur de Ia
Mole has folloxved him.
Mordi! cried Margaret laughing, is it so?
I confess that I shall not be sorry to have to alter
my opinion.~~
She then looked round, and saw La Mole re-
turning towards the gallows.
It was now the turn of the two princesses to
quit the cavalcade. The moment was favorable
for so doing, for they were just crossing a road
bordered by high hedges, by following which they
would get to within thirty paces of the gibbet.
Madame de Nevers said a word to the captain of
her guards, Margaret made a sign to Gillonne, her
tirewornan and confidant; and these four persons 124 MAItGARET OF VALOIS.
took the cross road, and hastened to place them-
selves in ambuscade behind some bushes near the
spot they were desirous of observing. There they
dismounted, and the captain held the horses,
wnilst the three ladies found a pleasant seat upon
the close fresh turf, with which the place was
overgrown. A.n opening in the bushes enabled
them to observe the smallest details of what was
passing.
La Mole had completed his circuit, and, walk-
ing up behind Coconnas, he stretched out his hand
and touched him on the shoulder. The Piedmon-
tese turned his head.
Oh ! said he, it was no dream then. You
are still alive ?
Yes, ~ replied La Mole, I am still alive.
It is not your fault, but such is t.he case.
Mordieu! I recognize you perfectly, said
Coconnas, lo spite of your pale cheeks. You
were redder than that the last time I saw you.~
And I recognize you also, said La Mole,
in spite of that yellow cut across your face.
You were paler than you are now when I gave it
to you.~
Coconnas bit his lips, but continued in the same
ironical tone.
It is curious, is it not, Monsieur de Ia Mole,
particularly for a iluguenot, to see the admiral
hung up to that iron hook?
Count, said La Mole with a bow, I am no
longer a Huguenot, I have the honor to be a Cath-
olic.
~ Bah U cried Coconnas, bursting into a laugh,
you are converted? How very sly of you !
Sir,~ replied La Mole, with the same serious
politeness, I made a vow to become a Catholic
if 1 escaped the massacre.
It was a very prudent vow, returned the
Piedmontese, and I conaratulate you on it; is it
the only one you made?
No, sir, I made one other, replied La Mole,
patting his horse with his usual deliberate grace.
And it was inquired Coconnas.
To hang you up yonder, to that little hook
which seems to be waiting fur you, just below
Monsieur de Coligny.
What ! cried Coconnas, all alive, just as I
am
No, sir; after passing my sword through
your body.
Cocounas becam.e purple, and his grey eyes
flashed fire.
Really, said he, with a sneer; to yonder
rail? You are not quite tall enough for that, my
little gentleman.
Then I will get upon your horse, replied La
Mole. Ah! you think, my dear M. Ilannibal de
Coconnas, that you may assassinate people with
impunity under the loyal and honorable pretext of
being a hundred to one. Not so. A day comes
when every man finds his man, and for you that
day is come now. I am almost tempted to break
your ugly head with a pistol shot; but pshaw!
I should perhaps miss you, for my hand still
shakes with the wounds you so treachero~isly gave
me.
My ugly head! roared Coconnas, throwing
himself off his horse. On fuot! Monsieur le
Comteout with your blade ! And he drew his
sword.
I think your Huguenot called him ugly,
whispered the Duchess of Nevers to Margaret.
Do you find him soy
lie is charming, cried Margaret laughing,
and Monsieur de la Moles anger renders him
unjust. But hush ! let us observe them.
La Mole got off his horse with as much delib-
eration as Coconnas had shown haste, drew his
sword, and put himself on guard.
Ah ! cried he, as he extended his arm.
Oh ! exclaimed Coconnas, as he stretched
out his.
Both, it will be remembered, were wounded in
the shoulder, and a sudden movement still caused
them acute suffering. A stifled laugh was audible
from behind the trees. The princesses had been
uuah)le to restrain it when they saw the two cham-
pions rubbing their shoulders and grimacing with
pain. The laugh reached the ears of La Mole
and Coconnas, who had been hitherto unaware of
the presence of witnesses, but who now, on look-
ing round, perceived the ladies. La Mole again
put himself on guard, steady as an automaton, and
Coconimas, as their swords crossed, uttered an
energetic Mordieu!
Aim 9a! exclaimed Margaret, they are in
earnest, and will kill one another if we do not
l)revent it. This is going tou far. Stop, gentle-
men, I entreat you.
Let them go on, said Henriette, who, hav-
ing already seen Coconnas make head successfully
acrainst three antagonists at once, trusted that he
would have at least as easy a bargain of La Mole.
At the first clash of the steel, the combatants
became silent. They were neither of them cumin-
fident in their strength, and, at each pass or parry,
their imperfectly healed wounds caused them sharp
pain. Nevertheless, with fixed amid ardent eye,
his lips slightly parted, his teeth firmly set, La
Mole advanced with short steady steps upon his
adversary, who, perceiving that he had to do with
a master of fence, retreatedgradually, it is true.
hut still retreated. In this manner they reached
the edge of the moat, or dry ditch, on the other
side of which the spectators had stationed the.-
selves. There, as if he had only retired with the
view of getting nearer to the duchess, Coconnas
stopped, and marie a rapid thrust. At the same
instant a sanguine spot, which grew each secoird
larger, appeared 01)011 the white satin of La Moles
doublet.
Courage ! cried the Duchess of Nevers.
Poor La Mole ! exclaimed Margaret, with a
cry of sorrow.
La 1\Iole heard the exclamation, threw one
expressive glance to the queen, and making a
skilful feint, followed it up by a pass of lightning
swiftness. This time both the women shrieked.
TIme point of La Moles rapier had appeared, crim-
son raith blood, behind the back of Coconnas.
Neither of the combatants fell; they remained
on their feet, staring at each other, each of them
feeling that at the first movement he made he
should lose his balance. At last the Piedmontese,
more dangerously wounded than his antagonist,
and feeling that his strength was ebbing away
with his blood, threw himself forward upon La
Mole, and seized him with one arm, whilst with
the other hand he felt for his dagger. La Mole
mustered all his renmaining strength, raised his
hand, and struck Coconnas on the forehead with
his sword-hilt. Coconnas fell, but in falling he
dragged his adversary after luim, and both rolled
into the ditch. Then Margaret and the Duchess
of Nevers, seeing that although, apparently dying,
they still sought to finish each other, sprang for- 1~IARGARET OF VALOIS. 125
ward, preceded by the captain of the guards. But
before they reached the wounded men, the eyes
of the latter closed, their grasp was loosened, and,
letting fall their weapons, they stretched them-
selves out stiff and convulsed. A pool of blood
had already formed itself around them.
Oh! brave, brave La Mole ! exclaimed Mar-
garet, unable to repress her admiration. How
can I forgive myself for having suspected you?
And her eyes filled with tears.
Alas! alas ! cried the duchess, sobbing vio-
lently. Say, madam, did you ever see such
intrepid champions?
Tudieu !What hard knocks! exclaimed the
captain, trying to stanch the blood that flowed
from the wounds. lola! you who are coming,
come more quickly.
A man, seated on the front of a sort of cart
painted of a red color, was seen slowly approach-
ing.
Hola ! repeated the captain, will you
come, then, when you are called? Do you not
see that these gentlemen are in want of assist-
ance?
The man in the cart, whose appearance was in
the highest degree coarse and repulsive, stopped his
horse, got down, and stepped over the two bodies.
These are pretty wounds, said he, but I
make better ones.
Who, then, are you ? said Margaret, expe
riencing, in spite of herself, a vague and uncon-
querable sensation of terror.
Madam, replied the man, bowing to the
ground, I am Maitre Caboche, executioner of the
city of Paris; and I am com.e to suspend to this
gibbet some companions for the admiral.
And I am the Queen of Navarre; throw out
your dead bodies, place our horses clothes in your
cart, and bring these two gentlemen carefully to
the Louvre.
La Mole recovers from his wounds before
Coconnas is out of danger. The latter is, in great
measure, restored to health through the care and
attention which his late antagonist generously
lavishes on him; they become intimate friends,
and Coconnas is appointed to the household of the
Duke of Aleu~on, to which La Mole already
belongs. The duke, out of opposition to his
brothers, the king and the Duke of Anion, has a
leaning towards the Huguenot party. De Mouy,
a Protestant leadet, whose father has been assas-
sinated by Maurevel, comes in disguise to the
Louvre, to communicate with henry of Navarre,
in the sincerity of whose conversion the Hugue-
nots do not believe. Henry, however, who knows
that the walls of the Louvre have ears, refuses to
listen to De Mouy, and declares himself Catholic
to the backbone; and De Mony, despairing and
indignant, leaves the kings apartment. The
Duke of Alen~on, who has overheard their con-
ference, as Henry suspected, stops the Huguenot
emissary, and shows a disposition to put himself
at the head of that party and become King of
Navarre. There is a great deal of intrigue and
znanmuvring, very skilfully managed by Henry,
who makes DAlen~on believe that he has no
wish to become anything more than a simple
country-gentleman, and that he is willing to aid
him in his ambitious designs. He proposes that
they should watch for an opportunity of leaving
Paris and repairing to Navarre. Before the nego-
tiations between the two princes are completed,
however, the Duke of Anjoy has been elected
King of Poland, and has had his election ratified
by the Pope; and DAlen~on then begins to think
that it would be advisable to remain at Paris on
the chance of himself becoming King of France.
Charles IX. is delicate and sickly, subject to tre-
mendous outbursts of passion which leave him
weak and exhausted ; his life is not likely to he a
long one. Should he die, and even if the Poles
should allow their new king to return to France,
DAleneon would have ti~ie, he thinks, before the
arrival of the latter, to seize upon the vacant
throne. Even the reversion of the crown of Po-
land would perhaps be preferable to the possession
of that of Navarre. Whilst ruminating these
plans, one of the kings frequent hunting parties
takes place in the forest of I3ondy, and is attended
by all the royal family except the Duke of Anjou,
then absent at the siege of La R ochelle. At this
hunting party the following striking incidents
occur.
The piqucur who had told the king that the boar
was still in the enclosure, had sl)oken the truth.
Hardly was the bloodhound put upon the scent,
when he plunged into a thicket, and drove the ani-
mal, an enormous one of its kind, from its retreat
in a cluster of thorn-bushes. The boar made
straight across the road, at about fifty paces from
the king. The leashes of a score of dogs were
immediately slipped, and the eager hounds rushed
headlong in pursuit.
The chase was Charles strongest passion.
Scarcely had the hoar crossed the road, when he
spurred after him, sounding the view upon his
horn, and followed by the Duke of Alen~on, and
by Henry of Navarre. All the other chasseurs
followed.
The royal forests, at the period referred to,
were not, as at present, extensive parks inter-
sected by carriage roads. Kings had not yet had
the happy idea of becoming timber-merchants, and
of dividing their woods into tailles and futaies.
The trees, planted not by scientific foresters, but
by the hand of God, who let the seed fall where
the wind chose to bear it, were not arranged in
quincouxes, but sprang up without order, and as
they now do in the virgin forests of America.
Consequently a forest at that period was a place in
which boars and stags, wolves and robbers, were
to be found in abundance.
The wood of Bondy was surrounded by a circu-
lar road, like the tire of a wheel, and crossed by a
dozen paths which might be called the spokes.
To complete the comparison, the axle was repre-
sented by a carrefour, or open space, in the centre
of the wood, whence all these paths diverged, and
whither any of the sportsmen who might be thrown
out were in the habit of repairing, till some sight
or sound of the chase enabled them to reijpin it.
At the end of a quarter of an hour it happened,
as it usually did at these hunts, that insurmounta-
ble obstacles had opposed themselves to the pro-
gress of the hunters, the baying of the hounds had
become inaudible in the distance, and the king
himself had returned to the carrefour, swearing
and cursing according to his custom.
Well, DAlen~on! Well, Henriot! cried
he here you are, mordieu! as calm and quiet
as nuns following their abbess. That is not hunt-
ing. You, DAlen~onyou look as if you had
just come out of a bandbox; and you are so per.
fumed, that if you got between the boar and my
dogs, you would make them lose the scent. And
you, Henriotwhere is yourboar-spear? Where
your arquebuss?
Sire, replied Henry, an arquebtiss would126
MARGARET OF VALOIS.
be useless to me. I know that your majesty likes pale alternately, and appeared to be straining his
to shoot the hoar himself when it is brought to hearing to catch some sound of the chase.
bay. As to the spear, I handle it very clumsily. The news from Poland have produced their
We are not used to it in our mountains, where we effect, said Henry to himself, and my good
hunt the bear with nothing but a dagger. brother-in-law has a plan of his own. He would
By the rnordieu, Henry, when you return to like to see me escape, but I shall not go alone.
your Pyrenees you shall send inc a cart-load of He had scarcely made the reflection, when
bears. It must be noble sport to contend with aii several of the recently converted Huguenots, who
animal that can stifle you with a hug. But hark! within the last two or three mouths had returned
I hear the d%s! No, I was mistaken. to the court and the Romish church, came up at a
The king put his horn to his mouth and sounded canter, and saluted the two princes with a most
a fanfare. Several horns replied to him. Sod- engaging smile. The Duke of Alen~on, already
denly a piqucur appeared, sounding a different urged on by Henrys overtures, had hut to utter a
call. word or make a sign, and it was evident that his
The view! the view ! cried the king ; and flight would he favored by the thirty or forty cay-
he galloped off, followed by the other sportsmen. aliers who had collected around him, as if to
The pi7ueur was not mistaken. As the king oppose themselves to the followers of the Duke of
a(lvauced he beard the baying of the pack, which Guise. But that word he did not utter. He
was now composed of more than sixty dogs, fresh turned away his head, and, putting his horn to his
relays having been slipped at different places near mouth, sounded the rally.
which the boar had passed. At last Charles Nevertheless the new-comers, as if they thought
caught a second glimpse of the animal, and, prof- that DAlen~ons hesitation was occasioned by the
ittng by the height of the adjacent trees, which vicinity of the Cuisards, had gradually placed
enabled him to ride beneath their branches, he themselves between the latter and the two princes,
turned into the wood, sounding his horn with all arraying themselves in & lielon with a sort of
his strength. The princes fidlowed him for some strategic skill, which implied a habit of military
time, but the king had so vigorous a horse, and, maneuvres. Guise and his followers would have
carried away by his eagerness, he dashed over had to ride over them to get at the Duke of Alen-.
such steep and broken ground, and through such ~on and the King of Navarre; whilst, on the
dense thickets, that first the ladies, then the Duke other side, a long and unobstructed road lay open
of Guise and his gentlemen, and at last the two b fore the brothers-in-law.
princes were forced to abandon him. All the Suddenly, between the trees, at ten paces from
hunters therefore, with the exception of Charles the King of Navarre, there appeared another horse-
and a few piqucurs, found themselves reiissembled man, whom the princes had not yet seen. henry
at the carrefour. DAlen~on and Henry were was trying to guess who this person was, when
standin0 near each other in a long alley. At the gentleman raised his hat and disclosed the
about a hundred paces from them the Duke of features of the Viscount of Turenne, one of the
Guise had halted, with his retinue of twenty or chiefs of the Protestant party and who was sup-
thirty gentlemen, who were armed, it might have posed to be then in Poiton. The viscount even
been thought, rather for the battle-field than the risked a sign, which meant to say Are you
hunting-ground. The ladies were in the carrefour coming? But Henry, after consulting the in-
itself. expressive countenance and dull eyes of the Duke
Would it not seem, said the Duke of Alen- of Aleri~on turned his head two or three times
~on to Henry, glancing at the Duke of Guise with upon his shoulders, as if something in the collar of
the corner of his eye, that yonder man with his his doublet inconvenienced him. It was a reply in
steel-clad escort is the true king? He does not the negative. The viscount understood it, gave
even vouchsafe a glance to us poor princes. his horse the spur, and disappeared amongst the
Why should he treat us better than our own trees. At the same moment the pack was heard
relations do ? replied Henry. Are we not, you approaching; then, at the end of the alley, the
and 1, prisoners at the court of France, hostages boar was seen to pass, followed at a short distance
for our party ? by the dogs, whilst after them came Charles IX.,
The Duke Francis started, and looked at Henry like some dcmon-huntsman, bareheaded, his horn
as if to provoke a further explanation ; but Henry at his mouth, sounding as though he would burst
had gone further than he was wont, and he re- his lungs. Three or four piqucurs followed him.
mained silent. The king! cried DAlen~on riding off to
What do you mean, henry? inquired the join in the chase. Henry, encouraged by the
duke, evidently vexed that his brother-in-law, by presence of his partisans, signed to them to remain,
his taciturnity, compelled him to put the question. and approached the ladies.
I mean, brother, answered Henry, that Well, said Margaret, advancing to meet
those armed men who seem so careful not to lose him.
sight of us, have quite the appearance of guards Well, madame, said Henry, we are hunt-
charged to prevent us from escaping. ing the boar.
Escaping! Why? How? cried DAlen~on, Is that all ?
with a well-feigned air of surprise and simplicity. Yes, the wind has changed since yesterday
You have a magnificent jennet there, Fran- morning. I think I predicted that such would be
cis, said Henry, following up the subject, whilst the case.
appearing to change the conversation. I am These changes of wind are bad for hunting
sure he would get over seven leagues in an hour, are they not, sir? inquired Margaret.
and twenty from now till noon. It is a fine day Yes, replied her husband, they sometimes
for a ride. Look at that cross-roadhow level overturn previous arrangements, and the plan has
and pleasant it is! Are you not tempted, Francis? to be remade.
For my part, my spurs are burning my heels~ At this moment the baying of the pack was
Francis made no answer. He turned red and again heard near the carrefour. The noise and MARGAItET OF VALOIS. 127
tumult rapidly app.oaehing, warned the hunters to boar, whom they seized each by an ear. The
he on the alert. All heads were raised, every ear animal, feeling himself co~ff6, as it is termed,
was strained, when suddenly the boar burst out of guashed his teeth with pain and fury.
the wood, and, instead of plunging into the opposite Bravo, Duredent! Bravo, Risquetout ! vocife-
thicket, made strai~ht for the carrefour. Close to rated Charles. Courage, my dogs! a spear! a
the animals heels were thirty or forty of the strong- spear !
eat amongst the dogs, and at less than twenty Will you have my arquebuss l said the
paces behind these came Charles himself, without Duke of Alencon.
cap or cloak, his clothes torn by the thorns, his No, cried the king. Noone does not
face and bands covered with blood. Only one or feel the ball go in ; there is no pleasure in that.
two pi.7ueurs kept up with him. Alternately One feels the spear. A spear! a spear !
sounding his horn and shouting encouragement to A boar-spear made of wood hardened in the fire
the dogs, the king pressed onwards, everything but and tipped with iron, was h nded to the king.
the chase forgotten. If his horse had failed him Be cautious, brother ! exclaimed Margaret.
at that moment, he would h. ye exclaimed, like Sus, sus, sire ! cried the Duchess of Nevers.
Thehard III., My kingdom for a horse ! But Do not miss him, sire. A good thrust to the
the horse appeared as eager as his rider. His brute !
feet scarce touched the ground, and he seemed to You may depend on that, duchess, replied
snort fire from his blood-red nostrils. Boar, dogs, Charles. And levelling his spear, he charged the
aad king dashed by like a ~vhirlwind. boar, who, being held down by the two dogs, could
Hallali! hallali ! cried the king as he passed. not avoid the blow. Nevertheless, at the sight of
And again he applied his horn to his bleeding the glittering point of the weapon, the animal
lips. A short distance behind him came the Duke made a movement on one side, and the spear,
of Alen9on and two more piqueurs. The horses instead of piercing his breast, grazed his shoulder.
of the others were blown or distanced. and struck against the rock in his rear.
Everybody now joined in the pursuit, for it was Mule norns dun. diable! cried the king, I
evident that the boar would soon turn to bay. have missed him. A spear! a spear ! And
Accordingly, at the end of ten minutes, the beast backin~ his horse like a kni~ht in the lists, lie
left the path and entered the wood; but on reach- pitched away his weapon, of which the point had
ing a neighboring glade, he turned his tail to a turned against the rock. A piqucur advanced to
rock and made head against the dogs. The most give him another. But at the same moment, as if
interesting moment of the hunt had arrived. The he had foreseen the fate that awaited him, and was
animal was evidently prepared to make a desperate determined to avoid it at any cost, the boar, by a
defence. The dogs, fierce and foaming after their violent effort, wrenched his torn ears from the
three hours chase, precipitated themselves upon jaws of the dogs, and with bloodshot eyes, brist-
him with a fury which was redoubled by the shouts hug and hideous, his respiration sounding like the
and oaths of the king. The hunters arranged bellows of a- forge, and his teeth chattering and
themselves in a circle, Charles a little in front, grinding against each other, he lowered his head
having behind him the Duke of Alen~on, who and made a rush at the kings horse. Charles was
ca ied an arquebuss, and Henry of Navarre, who too experienced a sportsman not to have anticipated
was armed only with a coutean-de-chasse. The this attack, and he turned his horse quickly aside.
duke unslung his arquehuss and lit the match; But he had pressed too hard upon the bit; the
henry loosened his hunting-knife in the scabbard. horse reared violently, and, either terrified at the
As to the Duke of Guise, who affected to despise boar or compelled by the pull on the bridle, fell
field-sports, he kept himself a little apart with his backwards. The spectators uttered a terrible cry.
gentlemen; and on the other side another little The kings thigh was nuder the horse.
~roup was formed by the ladies. All eyes were Slack your rein ! cried Henry, slack your
fixed in anxious expectation upon the hoar. rein !
A little apart stood a piqucur, exerting all his The king relinquished his bold on the bridle,
strength to resist the efforts of two enormous dous seized the saddle with his left hand, and with his
who awaited, covered with their coats of mail, right tried to draw his hunting-knife; but the blade,
howling savagely, and strug 1 in~ as though they pressed upon by the weight of his body, would not
would break their chains, the moment when they leave its sheath.
should be let loose upou the boar. The latter did The boar! the boar! cried Charles. Help,
wonders. Attacked at one time by forty dogs, DAlen9on! help !
that covered hini like a living wave or many-colored Nevertheless the horse, left to himself, as if he
carpet, and strove on all sides to tear his wrinkled had understood his riders peril, made an effort,
and bristhin,, hide, he, at each blow of his formi- and had already got up on three legs, when Henry
elable tusk, tossed one of his assailants ten feet into saw the Duke Francis grow deadly pale, bring his
the air. The dogs fell to the ground ripped up, arquebuss to his shoulder, and fire. The ball, in-
and threw themselves, with their bowels hanging stead of striking the boar, now but at two paces
out of their wounds, once inure into the m~l6e; from the king, broke the front leg of the horse,
whilst Charles, -with hair on end, inflamed eyes, who again fell with his nose upon the earth. At..
and distended nostrils, bent forward over the neck the same moment Charles boot was torn by the:
of his foaming steed and sounded a furious hallali. tusk of the boar.
In less than ten minutes twenty dogs were dis- Oh ! murmured DAlen9on between his;
abled. pallid lips, I think that the Duke of Anjon is:
The mastiffs ! cried Charles; the mas- King of France, and that I am King of Poland !
tiffs ! It seemed indeed probable. The snout of them
At the word, the piqucur slipped the leashes, boar was rummaging Charles thigh, when the
and the two dogs dashed into the midst of the latter felt somebody seize and raise his armas
carnage, upsetting the smaller hounds, and with keen bright blade flashed before his eyes, andJ
their iron-coated sides forcing their way to the buried itself to the hilt in the shoulder of the brute;; 128 MARGARET OF VALOIS.
whilst a gauntleted hand put aside the dangerous
tusks which were already disappearing under the
kings garments. Charles, who had taken advan-
tage of the horse s movement to disengage his
leg, rose slowly to his feet, and, seeing himself
covered with blood, became as pale as a corpse.
Sire, said Henry, who, still on his knees,
held down the boar, which he had stabhed to the
heart Sire, there is no harm done. I put
aside the tusk, and your Majesty is unhurt.
Then, getting up, he let go his hold of the hunt-
ing-knife, and the hoar fell, the blood flowing
from his mouth even more plentifully than from
the wound.
Charles, surrounded by the alarmed throng, and
assailed by cries of terror that might well have
bewildered the calmest courage, was for a moment
on the point of falling senseless near the dying
animal. But he recovered himself, and turning
towards the King of Navarre, pressed his hand
with a look in which was visible the first gleam of
kindly feeling that he had shown during his
twenty-four years of existence.
Thanks, Henriot, said he.
My poor brother! cried DAlen~on, ap-
proaching the king.
Ab! you are there, DAlen~on? cried
Charles. Well, you famous marksman, what is
become of your bullet?
It must have flattened upon the hide of the
boar, said the duke.
Eh! mon Dieu! cried Henry, with a surprise
that was admirably acted; see there, Francis
your hall has broken the leg of his Majestys
horse !
What ! said the king; is that true?
It is possible, said the duke, in great con-
fusion ; my hand trembled so violently.
The fact is, that fur an expert marksman you
have made a singular shot, Francis. said Charles
frowning.
For the second time, thanks, Henriot. Gen-
tlemen, continued the king, we will return
to Paris; I have had enough for to-day.
Margaret came up to congratulate Henry.
Ma foi! yes, Margot, said Charles, you
may congratulate him, and very sincerely too, for
without him the King of France would now be
Henry the Third.
Alas! madam, said the B6arnais, the
Duke of Anjou, already my enemy, will hate me
tenfold for this mornings work. But it cannot be
helped. One does what one can, as M. dAlen9on
will tell you.
Arid stooping, he drew his hunting-knife from
the carcass of the boar, and plunged it thrice into
the ground, to cleanse it from the blood.
Before leaving the Louvre, on the morning of
the boar-hunt, Charles has been prevailed upon by
Catharine of Medicis, who, in consequence of the
prediction already referred to, has vowed Henrys
destruction, to sign a warrant for the King of
Navarres arrest and imprisonment in the Bastile.
In this warrant she inserts the words, dead or
alive, and entrusts its execution to the assassin
Macrevel, intimating to him that Henrys death
will be more agreeable to her than his capture.
Charles, however, learns that his mother has had
an interviexv with Macrevel, guesses the fate
reserved for Henry, and, as the least troublesome
way of rescuing the man who had that day saved
his life, he makes his brother-in-law accompany
him to sup and pass the night out of the Louvre.
Henry does not dare to refuse, although he is
expecting a nocturnal visit from IDe Mouy in his
apartment, and the two kings leave the palace
together. Here is what passes after their depart-
ure.
It wanted two hours of miduight, and the most
profound silence reigned in the Louvre. Margaret
and the Duchess of Nevers had betaken theroselve,
to their rendezvous in the Rue Tizon; Coconnas
and La Mole had followed them; the Duke of
Alen~on remained in his apartment, in vague and
anxious expectation of the events which the
queen-mother had predicted to him ; finally, Cath-
anne herself had retired to rest, and Madame de
Sauve, seated at her bedside, was reading to her
certain Italian tales, at which the good queen
laughed heartily. For a long time, Catharine had
not been in so complacent a humor. After making
an excellent supper with her ladies, after holding
a consultation ~vith her physician, and making up
the account of her days expenditure, she had
ordered prayers for the success of an enterprise,
highly important, she said, to the happiness of her
children. It was one of Catharines Florentine
habits to have prayers and masses said for the suc-
cess of projects, the nature of which was known
but to God and to herself.
Whilst Madame de Sauve is reading, a terrible
cry and a pistol-shot are heard, followed by the
noise of a struggle from the direction of the Kint.
of Navarres apartment. All are greatly alarmed,
except Catharine, who affects not to have heard
the sounds, aiid forbids inquiry as to their cause,
attrib~iting them to some brawling guardsmen.
At last the disturbance appears to have ceased.
It is over, said Cathariue.Captain, she
continued, addressing herself to Monsieur de
Nancey, if there has been scandal in the palace,
you will not fail to-morro~v to have it seveicly
punished. Go on reading, Carlotta.
And Catharine fell back upon her pillows.
Only those nearest to her observed that large
drops of perspiration were trickling dowii her
face.
Madame de Sauve obeyed the formal order site
had received, but with her eyes and voice oiilr.
Her imagination represented to her some terrible
danger suspended over the head of him she loved.
After a short struggle between emotion and eti-
quette, the former prevailed; her voice died away,
the book fell from her hands, and she fainted.
Just then a violent noise was heard; a heavy hur-
ried step shook the corridor; two pistok-shots
caused the windows to rattle in their frames, and
Catharitie, astonished at this prolonged struggle,
sprang fi~m her couch, pale, and with dilated
eyeballs. The captain of the guard was hastening
to the door when she seized his arm.
Let no one leave the room, she cried; I
will go myself to see what is occurring.~~
What was occurring, or rather what had
occurred, was this: De Mony had received, that
morning, from Henrys page, Orthon, the key of
the King of Navarre~ apartment. In the hollow
of the key was a small roll of paper, which he
drew out with a pin. It contained the password
to be used that night at the Louvre. Orthon had,
moreover, delivered a verbal invitation from Henry
to Dc Mony, to visit him at the Louvre that night
at ten oclock.
At half-past nine, Dc Mouy donned a cuirass,
of which the strength had been more than once
tested; over this he buttoned a silken doublet,MARGARET OF VALOIS.
buckled on his sword, stuck his pistols in his belt,
and covered the whole with the counterpart of La
Moles famous crimson mantle. Thanks to this
well-known garment, and to the password with
which he was provided, he passed the guards undis-
covered, and went straight to Henrys apartment,
imitating as usual, and as well as he could, La
Moles manner of walking. In the antechamber
he found Orthon waiting for him.
Sire de Mouy, said the lad, the king is
out, but he begs of you to wait, and, if agreeable,
to throw yourself upon his bed till his return.
De Mony entered without asking any further
explanation, and by way of passing the time, took
a pen and ink, and began marking the different
stages from Paris to Pau upon a map of France
that hung against the wall. This he had com-
pleted, however, in a quarter of an hour; and
after walking two or three times round the room,
and gaping twice as often, he took advantage of
Henrys permission, and stretched himself upon
the large bed, surrounded with dark hangings,
which stood at the further end of the apartment.
He placed his pistols and a lamp upon a table near
at hand, laid his naked sword beside him, and cer-
tain not to be surprised, since Orthon was keeping
watch in the antechamber, he sank into a heavy
slumber, and was soon snoring in a manner worthy
of the King of Navarre himself.
It was then that six men with naked swords in
their hands, and daggers in their girdles, stealthily
entered the corridor upon which the door of
Ilenrys apartment opened. A seventh man
walked in front of the party, having, besides his
sword, and a dagger as broad and as strong as a
hunting-knife, a brace of pistols suspended to his
helt by silver hooks. This man was Maurevel.
On reaching Henrys door, he paused, introduced
into the lock the key which he had received from
the queen-mother, and, leaving two men at the
outer door, entered the antechamber with the four
others. Ali, ha ! said he, as the loud breathing
of the sleeper reached his ears from the inner
room, he is there.
Just then Orthon, thinking it was his master
who was coming in, went to meet him, and found
himself face to face with five armed men. At the
sight of that sinister countenance, of that Maure-
vel, whom men called Tucur du Roi, the faithful
lad stepped back, and placed himself before the
second door.
In the kings name, said Maurevel, ~ where
is your master?
My master ?
Yes, the King of Navarre.
The King of Navarre is not here, replied
Orthon, still in front of the door.
Tis a lie, replied Maurevel. Come! out
of the way!
The B~arnese are a headstrong race; Orthon
growled in reply to this summons, like one of the
dogs of his own mountains.
You shall not go in, said he sturdily. The
king is absent. And he held the door to.
Maurevel made a sign; the four men seized the
lad, pulled him away from the door-jambs to
which he clung, and as he opened his mouth to
cry out, Macrevel placed his hand over it. Orthon
bit him furiously; the assassin snatched away his
hand with a suppressed cry, and struck the boy on
the head with his sword-hilt. Orthon staggered.
Alarm! alarm! alarm! cried he, as he f?ll
8enseless to the ground.
129
The assassins passed over his body; two re-
mained at the second door, and the remaining two
entered the bedehamber, led on by Maurevel. By
the light of the lamp still burning upon the table,
they distinguished the bed, of which the curtains
were closed.
Oh, ho ! said the lieutenant of the little
band, he has left off snoring, it seems.
Allons, sus! cried Maurevel.
At the sound of his voice, a hoarse cry, resem-
bling rather the roar of a lion than any human
accents, issued from behind the curtains, which
the next instant were torn asunder. A man
armed with a cuirass, and his head covered with
one of those salades, or head-pieces, that come
down to the eyes, appeared seated upon the bed, a
pistol in either hand, and his drawn sword upon
his knees. No sooner did Maurevel perceive this
figure, and recognize the features of IDe Mony,
than he became frightfully pale, his hair bristled
up, his mouth filled with foam, and he made a step
backwards, as though terrified by some horrible
and unexpected apparition. At the same moment
the armed figure rose from its seat and made a
step forwards, so that the assailed seemed to be
pursuing, and the assailant to fly.
Ah! villain, exclaimed De Mouy, in the
holloxv tones of suppressed fury, do you come to
kill me as you killed my father?
The two men who had accompanied Maurevel
into the chamber alone heard these terrible words;
but as they were spoken, IDe Motiys pistol had
been brought to a level with Maurevels head.
Macrevel threw himself on his knees at the very
moment that Dc Mony pulled the trigger. The
bullet passed over him, and one of the guards who
stood behind, and who had been uncovered by his
movement, received it in his heart. At the same
instant Maurevel fired, but the ball rebounded from
De Monys cuirass. Then IDe Mouy, with one
blow of his heavy sword, split the skull of the
other soldier, and, turning upon Maurevel, attack-
ed him furiously. The combat was terrible but
short. At the fourth pass Maurevel felt the cold
steel in his throat; he uttered a stifled cry, fell
backwards, and, in falling, overturned the lamp.
Immediately De Mouy, profiting by the darkness,
and vigorous and active as one of Homers heroes,
rushed into the outer room, cut down one of the
guards, pushed aside the other, and, passing like a
thunderbolt between the two men stationed at the
door of the antechamber, received their fire with-
out injury. He had still got a loaded pistol, be-
sides the sword which he so well knew how to
handle. For one second he hesitated whether he
should take refuge in Monsieur dAlen9ons apart-
ment, the door of which, he thought, was just then
opened, or whether he should endeavor to leave
the Louvre. iDeciding upon the latter course, he
sprang down the stairs, ten steps at a time, reached
the wicket, uttered the password, and darted out.
Go up stairs, he shouted as he passed the
guardhouse; they are slaying there for the
kings account.
And before he could be pursued, he had disap-
peared in the Rue du Coq, without having received
a scratch.
It was at this moment of time that Catharine
had said to De Nancey Remain here; I will
go myself to see what is occurring.
But, madam, replied the captain, the dan-
ger to which your majesty might be exposed com-
pels me to follow.MARGARET OF VALOIS.
Remain here, sir, said Catharine, in a more
mperative tone than before. A higher power
than that of the sword watches over the safety of
kings.
The captain obeyed. Catharine took a lamp,
thrust her naked feet into velvet slippers, entered
the corridor, which was still full of smoke, and
advanced, cold and unmoved, towards the apart-
ment of the King of Navarre. All was again dead
silence. Catharine reached the outer door of
Henrys rooms, and passed into the antechamber,
where Orthon was lying, still insensible.
Ah, ha ! said she, here is the page to be-
gin with ; a little further we shall doubtless find
the master. And she passed through the second
room.
Then her foot struck against a corpse it was
that of the soldier whose skull had been split. He
was quite dead. Three paces further she found
the lieutenant: a ball in his breast, and the death-
rattle in his throat. Finally, near the bed, lay a
man bleeding profusely from a double wound that
had gone completely through his throat. He was
making violent but ineffectual efforts to raise him-
self from the ground. This was Maurevel.
Catharines blood ran cold; she saw the bed
empty; she looked round the room, and sought in
vain, amongst the three bodies that lay weltering
upon the floor, that of him whom she would fain
have seen there. Maurevel recognized her ; his
eyes became horribly dilated, and he held out his
arms with a gesture of despair.
Well, said she, in a low voice, where is
he? What has become of him? Wretch! have
you let him escape?
Maurevel endeavored to articulate; but an un-
intelligible hissing, which issued from his wound,
was the only sound he could give forth; a reddish
frtah fringed his lips, and he shook his head in
si~n of impotence and suffering.
But speak, then ! cried Catharine; speak,
if it be only to say one word.
Maurevel pointed to his wound, and again ut-
tered some inarticulate sounds, made an effort
which ended in a hoarse rattle, and swooned
away. Catharine then looked around her: she
was surrounded by the dead and the dying; blood
was flowing in streams over the floor, and a gloomy
silence prevailed in the apartment. She spoke
once more to Maurevel, but he could not hear her
voice; this time he remained not only silent, but
motionless. Whilst stooping over him, Catharine
perceived the corner of a paper protruding from
the breast of his doublet; it was the order to arrest
Henry. The queen-mother seized it, and hid it in
her bosom. Then, in despair at the failure of her
murderous project, she called the captain of her
guard, ordered the dead men to be removed, and
that Maurevel, who still lived, should be conveyed
to his house. She moreover particularly com-
manded that the king should not be disturbed.
Oh ! murmured she, as she reentered her
apartment, her head bowed upon her breast, he
has again escaped me! Surely the hand of God
protects this man. He will reign! he will
reign !
Then, as she opened the door of her bedroom,
she passed her hand over her forehead, and com-
posed her features into a smile.
What was the matter, madam? inquired all
her ladies, with the exception of Madame de
Sauve, who was too anxious and too agitated to
ask questions.
Nothing, replied Catharine; a great deal
of noise and nothing else.
Oh ! suddenly exclaimed Madame de Sauve,
pointing to the ground with her finger, each one
of your majestys footsteps leaves a trace of blood
upon the carpet !
Thrice foiled in her designs upon Henrys life,
the queen-mother does not yet give in. Henry,
whom the king has reproached with his ignorance
of falconry, has aske dth e Duke of Alen~on to
procure him a book on that subject. Catharine
hears of this request, and gives DAlen9on a book
of the kind requireda rare and valuable work,
but of which the edges of the leaves are stuck to-
eether, apparently from age, in reality by poison.
The idea is old, but its application is novel and
very effective. The queen-mother convinces
DAleneon that Henry is playing him false, and
the duke places the fatal book in the King of
Navarres room during his absence, being afraid
to give it into his hands. He then reenters his
apartment, hears Henry, as he thinks, return to
his, and passes half an hour in the agonies of sus-
pense and terror. To escape from himself and his
reflections, he goes to visit his brother Charles.
We have only space for a very short extract,
showing the frightful and unexpected result of
Catharines atrocious scheme.
Charles was seated at a table in a large carved
arm-chair: his back was turned to the duor by
which Francis had entered, and he appeared ab-
sorbed in some very interesting occupation. The
duke approached on tiptoe; Charles was reading.
Pardieu! exclaimed the king on a sudden,
this is an admirable book. I have heard speak
of it, but I knew not that a copy existed in
France.
DAlen~on made another step in advance.
Curse the leaves ! cried the king, putting his
thumb to his lips, and pressing it on the page he
had just read, in order to detach it from the one
he ~vas about to read; one would think they had
been stuck together on purpose, in order to con-
ceal from mens eyes the wonders they contain.
DAlen~on made a bound forwards. The book
Charles was reading was the one he had left in
Henrys room. A cry of horror escaped him.
Ha! is it you, DAlen~on ? said Charles;
come here and look at the most admirable trea-
tise on falconry that was ever produced by the pen
of man.~~
DAlen9ons first impulse was to snatch the
book from his brothers hands ; but an infernal
thought paralyzed the movementa frightful smile
passed over his pallid lips; he drew his hand
across his eyes as if something dazzled him. Then
gradually recovering himself
Sirg, said he to the king, how can this
book have come into your Majestys hands ?
In the most simple manner possible. I went
up just now to Henriots room, to see if he was
ready to go a hawking. He was not there, but in
his stead I found this treasure, which I brought
down with me to read at my ease.~~
And the king put his thumb to his lips and
turned another page.
Sire, stammered DAlen~on, who felt a hor-
rible anguish come over him, Sire, I came to
tell you
Let me finish this chapter, Francis, inter-
rupted Charles. You shall tell me whatever
you like afterwards. I have read fifty pages
already, or devoured them, I should rather say.
130INTERCOURSE OF THE GREAT AND THE LITTLE. 131
He has tasted the poison twenty-five times !
thonght Francis. My brother is a dead man.
He wiped, with his trembling hand, the chill
dew that stood upon his brow, and waited, as the
king had commanded, till the chapter was finished.
The end of Charles IX. is well known. A
dreadfnl complaint, a sweat of blood, which many
historians attribote to poison, and which the Ho-
guenots maintained to be a punishment inflicted on
him by heaven fir the massacre of their brethren,
rendered the latter months of his life a period of
horrible torture. At his death, Henry, having
everything to dread from the animosity of Catha-
rine, and from that of the Doke of Anjon, Charles
soccessor, fled from Paris, and took refuge in his
kingdom of Navarre.
From the Spectator.
INTERCOURSE OF THE GREAT AND THE
LITTLE.
AT Cobnrg and Gotha the queen has been living
en bourgeoisekeeping good hours, eschewing
state parade, and dining in a pavilion at a fair, as
good citizens were wont to dine in booths at our
Bartlemy Fair when it existed. Her majesty,
moreover, has been made aware that this, to her
new fashion of life is the custom of the country
that German sovereigns live thus throoghout the
year. Are we to have an importation of this free
and easy style of courtly life There are two ob-
stacles to its adoption hereone in the character
of the Court of St. James, and one in the char-
acter of the English people.
The sovereigns of Germany are the nobility of
the German empire, emancipated from the control
of a superior by the abolition of the office of Em-
peror. They are landlords as wQll as sovereigns;
great part of their revenues are derived from their
demesnes; and the means of some scarcely equal
the incomes of the wealthiest English nobles.
German sovereigns are what English peers might
be imagined, were the crown to hill into abeyance,
the Duke of Buckingham and his fellows to be-
come sovereigns of the counties over which they
are lords-lieutenant, and organize their courts in
conformity to their revenues and habits while sub-
jects. The spirit of the age, and still more the
pressure of the times when the German empire
was dissolved, prevented the new-made sovereigns
from taking full state upon them. They are a
kind of cross-breed between the king and the great
land-owner managing his own estates. They have
had no courtly traditions to unlearnno courtly
forms to lay aside. But the court of England, to
adopt their style, must change its character by an
effort.
On the other hand, the people of Germany, as a
body, are not politicians. Every Englishman is a
politician, and is on good or bad terms with his
king or queen according as the sovereigns politics
please or displease him. The Duke of Saxe Co-
burg is sure of a civil and kindly reception from
his half-subjects half-tenants ; but the king or
queen of Englands reception from the tax-paying
subjects of London, Manchester, or Birmingham,
might often depend upon who were ministers for
the time being, arid what particular course of poli-
cy they were steering. The French, like the
English, are politicians; and Louis Philippe and
William the Fourth soon found it expedient to
give up walking about the streets alone, carmiying
their own umbrellas. In France, where the mon
archy of the barricades as fettered by no tradi-
tional etiquette, the altered relations of king and
subject, when the monarch has ceased to stand in
any other than a political or an official relation to
the people, has materially restricted the free inter-
course of king and subjects.
It is this that renders an aristocracy so impor-
taut an element in a large monarchy. It is not as
legislators that our peers (by descent) are in
general of much use. Their hereditary legislative
authority, by combining political power with the
influence of the great proprietor, enables them to
play in some measure the same part as the Ger-
man sovereigns. They are the crowns deputies
to discharge those acts of courtesy, to maiutairt
that friendly and familiar intercourse with people
of this great eumpire, which the princes of the
small territories of Germany keep up in person.
This is a duty too much neglected by our nobil-
ityand by many who have not the nobles ex-
cuse for standing aloof from the people. It is the
vice of our age and country for the wealthy to
withdraw themselves, as much as possible, from
contact with the poor. The laboring classes are
paid by the job, not taken into service. Our very
domestic servants hold their places by a precarious
tenure, and if seized with sickness are sent to the
hospital. Any one of the better classes, caught at
a fair, would deem it necessary to apologize, and
explain that curiosity alone took him there. Two
castes have been firmed in society, between which
there are no permanent relations, or the sympa-
thies which spring from them. At Coburg, the
reigning prince and his royal and noble guests
moved about the fair as a matter of course: in
London, a proposal to resuscitate Bow Fair has
elicited eloquent and pathetic remonstrances from
the whole respectable class of society. The
German fair was a scene of merriment, as vulgar
as any cockney could wish, but decorous and inno-
cent. The London fair would probably be neither
decorous nor innocent, because the absence of the
class which piques itself upon correct behavior is
a signal for licence.
FIDE ET FORTITUDINEAt
THOUGH all ar6und is dark and cheerless,
And on high my star looks pale,
My heart is steadfast still, and fearless,
Still my lips disdain to wail.
Though all my early hopes lie broken,
Though no beacon guide my way;
Though Fate deny me every token
Of Power, Honor, Glorys ray;
Though learning s lost, and genius slighted
Though my soul has ceased to soar,
Midst blackest clouds for aye benighted,
A wreck in space that knows no shore;
Though Friendship s dead, ~nd Love lies bleed-
ing,
Laughter s mute, and Joy bath fled;
Though Time and Care are ever breeding
Woes to hurtle round my head ;
My spirit still stands up undaunted,
Still I on myself rely;
No craven thought my brain eer haunted,
Fate and Fortune I defy !Frasers Magazine.
* The motto of the writers family. 132 RUINS OF NINEVEH.
Ecom Si1iiman~ Journal of Science.
Ruins of Ninevelo: Description of the Discoveries
made in 1843 and 1844; in a letter from Rev.
AZARIAH SMITH, M. ID., Missionary A. B. C.
F.M.
THE city of Nineveh, so well known from the
facts related in the book of Jonah, was one of the
most ancient cities of which we have any record.
It is mentioned in Genesis x. 11, and was
probably founded within two hundred years after
the flood. In its days of prosperity, it is described
as having been a city of three days joorney ;
i. e., say sixty or s venty miles in circumference,
and as having contained more than six score
thousand persons that could not discern between
their right hand and their left band ; and also
much cattle. (See Jonah iii. 3, and iv. 11.)
Supposing this number to refer to children, the
population of Nineveh could not have been less
than 500,000, and from the mention made of cattle,
it is probable that the city embraced fields within
its limits, both for pasture and tillage. This
exceeding ,:,reat city, at that time the capital
of the Assyrian empire, was destroyed about the
beginning of the seventh century before Christ,
and though afterwards rebuilt by the Persians, it
never reiittained its former splendor. In the
seventh century of the Christian era, it was finally
destroyed by the Saracens, and its name and its
place would have been quite forgotten, but for the
prominence given it by the records of inspiration.
Indeed its geographical position has been so much
involved in doubt as to render it a worthy subject
of scientific inquiry, but the result of the observa-
tions of Rich and others has been to fix its locality
on the east bank of the river Tigris, (called by the
Arabs, Shat,) directly opposite the modern city of
Mosul. There, ruined walls of sun-dried brick
still remain, varying from fifteen to fifty feet in
heighth, and enclosing a space about four miles
long and a mile and a half hroad ; the whole of
which is strewed with fragments of pottery and
other marks indicating the site of an ar6~ient city.
Two immense mounds occupy each several acres
of this area; one of them is about a mile and a
half in circumference, and fifty feet highand the
other, though smaller, is sufficiently large to con-
tain upon its top and sidesas it does at the pres-
ent timea village of two or three hundred
houses. The principal mosque of this village is
said to cover the tomb of Jonah, and hence the
village is called by the Arabs, Nehi Yunis, or the
prophet Jonah. On the east side of the en-
closed space above referred to, there are two walls,
at their southern extremity approximating, and at
their northern ahout three quarters of a mile dis-
tant from each other. The outer of these appears
to be the older one and probably remains from the
Assyrian city, while the inner and more modern
may have been constructed when the place was
rebuilt by the Persians. Just within the outer
wall, there is an artificial channel, several yards
in width, cut, in some places, through solid rock,
and in the enclosed space west of the inner, where
are also the two mounds spoken of, foundations
still remain, marking the site of buildings, and of
arches, which, at different places, once stretched
across the Khaussera stream which passes
through the ruins from east to west, and a half a
mile farther on empties into the Tigris. Several
bricks and other fragments covered with ~nscrip-
tions in the cuneiform character, and one or
two large hlocks, having on them figures in has-
relief, have also been found, most of them in con-
nection with one or other of the two mounds. All
these ruins, together with the general locality of
the place, the names of other towns in the vicinity,
and above all the name (the prophet Jonah) given
by the natives to the village on one of the mounds,
has been deemed sufficient warrant for identifying
this spot with that once occupied by the city of
Nineveh.
The greatest objection which has been felt to
assigning to these ruins this name, is the size of
the area which the walls enclose ; as this is much
inferior to the area of Nineveh as described in his-
tory. Mr. Rich,* to meet this difficulty, suggests
that the walls now standing represent only a palace
and royal grounds, and that the populated part of
the city was without this enclosure. As there is
however no evidence of any wall enclosing such a
city as this would suppose, the adoption of the
view renders one of two conclusions necessary,
viz., that the city was unwalled; or that, while
the wall of the palace has been preserved, that of
the city has been destroyed. Both of these con-
clusions are, in themselves, improbable; but inde-
pendent thereof, there are many facts that seem to
us to render his theory untenable. The fact that
another wall enclosing an area, is found within the
territory that such a city must have occupied, and
that marks of edifices are rarely if ever found in
the space lying between these areas, seems to us
to decide the point. Moreover, no one can stand
upon one of these ruined walls, and compare the
rolling surface without, with the level area within,
and the high mounds upon that area, especially as
these and the space around them is strewed with
fragments of pottery and other ruins, without feel-
ing that he is standing upon the ramparts which
separated the town from its cultivated fields. If,
however, we are warranted by Jonah iv. 11, in
supposing that the Nineveb of Scripture included
gardens and pasture grounds for much cattle,
then it seems not unlikely that there may have
beon included under one name, two and even more
distinct groups or suburbs of houses, each pro-
tected by a wall peculiar to itself. LTnless we
adopt some such view as this, how can we suppose
a city of three days journey to contain only 120,000
persons who were unable to discern their right
hand from their left hand. The view just pro-
posed moreover, derives support from the fact
that Jonah (ch. iii. 4,) entered into the city a
days journeyi. e. according to this supposition,
he passed through the gardens which contained
only scattered houses, and perhaps even by one or
more enclosed suburbs to the main walled town
before he began to preach.
To remove objections to the view that Nineveh
included more than one walled suburb, it may be
well to mention some similar cases in modern
times. In the single and small district of Tiyary,
which lies sixty miles to the north of these ruins,
there are no less than three instances of several
villages grouped under one name. Rumpta, Kay-
laytha and Berawola arc villages composed sever-
ally of eleven, seven, and four distinmet and some-
what distant groups of houses. By inhabitants of
these places, each group is known, at least in the
first two instances, by some specific title, but away
from home the division is no more recognized as a
valid ground for considering them distinct villages,
* Residence in Koordistan and Nineveh.RUINS OF NINEVEH. 133
than is the local division of Philadelphia, into
Southwark, Kensington, Northern Liberties, & c.,
a valid ground for calling these districts, in general
geography, so many cities. In Berawola this is
more remarkable, as the gronps of houses are
separated by quite high and steep hills, and as, in
this case, even the villagers among themselves
seem to have no distinctive name fur the several
parts which go to make up the whole village. I
refer to these examples, because occurring among
a people (the Nestorians) living in the neighbor-
hood of these ruins, and who, having long re-
mamed undisturbedperhaps even from the time
of Ninevehs overthrow, in the inaccessible fast-
nesses of their barren mountains, are more likely
than any other to have handed down to us un-
changed, the customs of those times. Other ex-
amples of something similar, and more weighty,
because better known, may be found in Beirout,
Constantinople, and Trebizond. These are sea-
port towns with walls, but a large proportion of
their population reside without them. Constanti-
nople indeed has enclosed suburbs besides the main
walled town, and if these were separated from it
and from each other by gardens instead of water,
they would exactly illustrate our idea of the places
represented by the two ruined enclosures, spoken
of as found on the east side of the Tigris near
Mosul. The object of the remainder of this
article, will be to give a brief account of the late
discoveries of Mons. Botta, the French consul of
Mosul, in the more eastern and inferior of these
ruins.
These discoveries were made in a mound about
ten miles to the northeast of the village of Nebi
Yunis. This mound is about four hundred and
fifty feet wide, six hundred feet long, and varies
from twenty to forty feet in height. Its area is
nearly oval, bnt its surface is somewhat uneven,
and its outlines are correspondingly irregular. It
is situated in one side of what appm rs to have
b3ei a fortified town, (or suburb?) there being
still in existence the remains of a mud wall, en-
clositig a space a mile square. This ruined wall
is in few placesand those apparently towers
more than ten feet high, but as there is evidence
that it was originally faced with hewn stone, no
doubt can exist but that it was built for purposes
of defence, and once enclosed a thriving, busy
population. But to return to the mound referred
to, and which forms, by one of its faces, a part of
the northeastern boundary of this enclosure. It
has been occupied as far back as modern inquiry
can extend, by an Arab village of about a hundred
houses, called by the natives Khorsabad. In dig-
ing vaults or cisterns for the safe deposit of straw
and grain, these people had repeatedly found
remains of ancient sculpture, bitt their value not
being known, no account of the discovery was
made public. In 1843, while Mons. Botta was
making excavations in one of the mounds near the
Tigris, one of the villagers of Khorsabad inquired
of him why he did not come and di~ in their
village, for, said he, it is built on a mound
like this, which contains more beautiful stones
than any you can find here. In due time the
work of excavation was transferred according to
the villagers recommendation, and the step re-
sulted in one of the most interesting discoveries,
if we may not say the most interesting discovery
of modern times. The whole upper part of the
mound has been found to be threaded with walls
running at right angles to each other, and etm
closing rooms varying from thirty to a hundred and
thirty feet in length, and pretty uniformly about
thirty feet in breadth. The whole seems to have
been but a part of oite building, amid perhaps but a
small part, for the walls are broken off in several
places by the edge of the mound in a manner
which indicates that its area was once much more
extensive than it now is. But we will lint venture
into the field of conjecture; our object is to de-
scribe what has been actually discovered.
The point where the excavations were com-
menced was near the margin of the mound, about
twenty feet above its base, and where the top of
what seemed to be a stone wall presented itself
On digging along the sides of this, it was found to
be composed of a single row of large hewn stones,
the top of which had been hroken off by violence
or otherwise destroyed. On one side these stones
were plain or unfinished, on the other the lower
part of the legs of captives, with chaimis around
their andes, were represented in has-relief, the
latter being the surface designed to he seen, while
the former was contiguous to an unburnt brick
wall, of which these stones formed the facing. To
furnish a good opportunity to examine arid copy
these figures, a ditch about four feet wide was dug
along in front of the stones, sticks being so placed
as to keep them from falling forward. Following
the stone work in this manner a little distance, the
workmen came to a doorway. Turning around
the corner thus presented, they directed the dig-
ging inward towards the room, and the walls were
found to have been twelve or fifteen feet thick.
The doorway thus entered was about eight feet
broad, and its floor was formed by a single stone,
which was covered with writing in the cuneiform
character. 0mm the stones forming the sides of this
doorway were immense figures, having an eagles
head and wings, with arms and legs like those of
a man. The doors were gone, hut circular holes,
about ten inches in diameter and as many in depth,
were found cut in the floor on each side of the
doorway. These holes were so situated in the
angles of recesses in the sides of the doorway, as
to leave no doubt that they were the receptacles of
the pivots on which the doors turned. Those
who are familiar with the manner in which the
lock-gates of American canals are usually hung,
and the recesses into which they fit while boats are
passing in and out of the locks, will derive from
them a very correct idea of the style of the door-
way just described. This doorway being cleared
out, the digging was directed along in front of the
stone, facing the inner side of the unburut brick
wall. In this way, also, the excavations were
conducted throughout the whole of the work,
which comprised a line of stone facing, ten feet
high when the stones were uninjured, and, follow-
ing its ramifications, more than a mile in length;
the whole of which was covered either with in-
scriptions or with has-reliefs. From thirty to
sixty laborers were constantly employed for more
than six months in the manual labor of excavatiomi
alone; and this will show, perhaps better than any
statement of measures or other statistics, the
actual extent of, and the expense attending, these
researches. The number of rooms whose om]tlines
were in a tolerably good state of preservation was
fifteen, but there were traces of others, as we shall
hereafter mention. As the mound increased in
heighth toward the centre, the upper part of the
stones became more and more perfect, until they
were found of their original size, and farther, theRUINS OF NINEVEIT.
tops of these were in som~. places nearly or quite
ten feet below the surfaee of the mound, making
the whole depth of the exeavations in such places
Thout twenty feet. In a few instances, however,
hese stone slabs were sixteen feet hi~h, being
~oade thus large to accommodate the gigantie
figures upon their surface.
Although the writer feels that it is quite im-
issIble by description to convey an accurate idea
of the sculptures found on these stones, yet, in the
absence of drawings, he xvill use his best endeavors
to supply their plaee.* The largest has-reliefs are
of hnnian form, about sixteen feet high. Between
the left sides and suspended arms of these, lions
re held dangling in the air, while serpents are
grasped by the right hand, which hangs extended
little forwards. These figures are but few in
number. The monsters by the doorway, already
described, are the next in size, and others like
them are found in several other similar situations.
The surface of the whole remaining line of wall,
is to a great extent covered with human figures
nine feet high. These represent kings, priests,
manacled captives, soldiers armed with hows, and
quivers of arrows, and servants, some of whom are
hearing presents to a king, while others have upon
their shoulders a throne or chair of state. Where
the figures are not of this large size, they are
found in two rows, one ahove the other, and be-
tween the rows are inscriptions, generally about
txventy inches hroad, each inch representing a line
of the writing. But we will leave the inscriptions
for the present. The figures above and below
them, are grouped together, as if to represent his-
torical events. Some ten or more cities or castles
are found represented in different rooms, and re-
mote from eaeh other, all undergoing the process
of being besie0ed, and the enemy without, in every
ease, triumphant. LTpon the walls of these castles
re men in a great variety of attitudes, some with
both hands uplifted, as if imploring for mercy,
some engaged in defence, some transfixed with
arrows and falling forwards, and some already sur-
rounded hy flames, while before them men are
sometimes impaled, their countenanees distorted as
if in the agonies of death. The besiegers are not
only triumphant, but are represented as larger than
the besie~,ed in stature and more noble in mien.
They also appear in many different forms: while
some are shooting arrows at those on the walls,
and some with torches are setting on fire the gates,
others still are protecting these from the weapons
of the besieged, by holding before them round or
rectangular shields. In fine, it seems to have been
~he artists design to represent in, upon, and
around the castles, every attitude that warriors
might he supposed to take in such circumstances.
Upon the front of each of these structures a short
inscription is found. These are different one from
the other, and probably designed to communicate
the name by which it was known. As the eastles
~hemselves are only three or four feet high, the
fgures here described are of course small. Of
~~gures about the same size with the castles there
is also a great variety. Here a two-wheeled chariot
of war is seen containing three persons, one in
* Mons. Botta, in addition to many other favors, which
the writer takes this opportunity to acknowledge, has
been so kind as to furnish him with an accurate plan of
these ruins, but as the insertion of it here would antici-
pate the volumes to he issued by the French government,
it is deemed but a just regard to his generosity to with
royal apparel drawing a bow, another by his side
protecting him with a shield, and the third one
guiding the horses, who are four abreast. There
a king is seen riding in a similar chariot in time of
peace, with an umbrella held over his head by one,
and the horses conducted as before by a second
attendant, all being in an erect posture. In one
place a feast is represented, the guests sitting on
opposite sides of tables, and on chairs, in true occi-
dental style, while servants are bringing fluid in
goblets, which other servants are employed in fill-
ing from immense vases; the vases, goblets, chairs
and tables all being highly ornamented with carved
work. In another place a navy is represented as
landing near a city. A number of boats well
manned and loaded with timber, are approaching
the shore, while others are tinlading timber from
other boats, and others still are engaged in build-
ing a bridge, or perhaps a sort of carriage-way for
the mounting of battering-rams. In the water are
seen crabs, fish, turtles, mermaids, and a singular
monster shaped like an ox, with a human head and
eagles wings. One room, thirty feet square, has
its walls completely covered with a hunting scene.
Trees, havin the shape of poplars are the most
prominent objects. The branches of these abound
with birds, and the space which separates them
one from another, with wild animals. In this
forest or park the king and his attendants are
sporting: a bird is transfixed with an arrow while
on the wing, and a servant is carrying a fox or
hare, the evidence of previous success.
But this is perhaps enough to giveall that is
attempteda general idea of the scenes repre-
sented. The character of the sculpture is in some
respects interesting. Some figures but a few
inches in length, are so perfect as to have the toe
and finger nails plainly distinguishable. Stron
passions are sometimes delineated on the faces, the
dying appear in agony, arid the dead seem stiff
and quite unlike the living, who look as if in actual
motion. In general the perspective is indifferent,
that of groups bad, and that of the water scene
above describedto mention one caseis decidedly
out of all reason. The costunie of all the figures
is much like that now worn in the East, the kings
having a flowintc tunic richly figured, and subjects
a simple plain frock, hanging in plaits. The Per-
sian cap, almost exactly as it is seen at the present
day, is worn by some; rings are quite commonly
suspended from the ears, and round bars, appa-
rently of iron, and made into helixes haviu5, two
or three revolutions, are worn around the arm
above the elbow, while the hair and beards of
all are curled and frizzled in as nice a manner
as it can be done in any of the courts of modern
Europe.*
Portions of some of the figures are painted red,
blue, green, and black; the same is true of the
trappings of some of the horses, and generally
wherever fire is represented it is made more dis-
tinct by coloring the flame ; but with these few
* Near the mouth of Nahr el Kelb or Dog River, a
stream which empties into the bay north of Beyroot, on a
large perpendicular and artificially smoothed surface of a
rock are found figures dressed in similar costumes with
some of these. Draxvin~s of the two, placed side by side,
present so many resenih~ances that one can hardly doubt
hut that the artists who made the originals, aimed to
depict men of the same age and nation. This striking
coincidence, and the fact that the inscriptions at Nahr et
Keib are in the same character with those of the ruins at
Khorsabad, seems to give sonic light as to the probable
events whib l~mh commemorate.
134exceptions, hardly worth mentioning except on
account of their rarity, all the bas-reliefs now de-
scribed are of the natural color of the stone from
which they project.
Heretofore our remarks have referred to has-
reliefs only. We have now to speak of a few
coniplete sculptures, which are more astonishing
than anything yet meI)tioned. These are im-
mense monsters, having the form of an ox, with
the face, hair and heard of a man, and the wings
of a bird. Of these there are upwards of twenty,
each cut from a single block of niassive sulphate
of lime. They stand generally in single pairs, at
the sides of the main entrances of the building, hut
at one entrance there are two pairs, and at another
three. They differ somewhat from each other in
size, but their average will not vary much from
fiur feet hroad, fourteen feet long, and fifteen feet
high. If the reader will apply these dimensions
to the walls of some building, he will be much
better able to conceive of the magnitude of these
gigantic images, than if his imagination is governed
by the mere mention of numbers and measures.
1 he shape of these monsters is not uniform, but
some of them exactly resemble the figure men-
tioned above in the scene of boats landing before a
besieged city; In these the wings of each side
extend above the back of the animal until they
nearly or quite come together, but in others they
are so carved as not to interfere essentially with
the natural shape of the ox. Their breasts and
sides are generally covered with small figured
work, probably representing a coat of mail, and
their horns, instead of protruding, are turned
around upon the sides of the head so as to form a
sort of wreath. As these sculptures stand in
every case with a part of one side contiguous to a
wall, the artist left that half of the lower portion
of the original block as a basis for the support of
the rest. This rendered it impossible for him to
exhibit the forwards legs both in front and at the
side in a natural position ;accordingly, he made
five legs, four visible at the side and two in front,
but a person looking upon them obliquely sees the
whole number at one view. In a recess of a few
inches deep, which exists between the fore and
hind legs, are found inscriptions of the same kind
as those before referred to.
A few remarks respecting the inscriptions can-
not fail to be interesting. The character is that
known as the cuneiform or arrow-headed, and dif-
fers but a little from that found on the bricks of
Bagdad. They are in lines about an inch broad
arid are indented in the stone about a quarter of an
inch. Their length, if written in a continuous
straight line, would be measured by miles. They
read from left to right, like English, and unlike
all languages now spoken in the vicinity of these
ruins. This fact is determined by the comparison
of two passages whose commencements are the
same and whose lines are of different length. The
number of different characters amounts to some
hundreds, and hence it seems unlikely that they
represent alphabetic sounds-perhaps the proper
names only are thus represented, while the more
common words have each their appropriate sign.
In the inscriptions upon the castles or cities, the
left hand character of each is generally, and if we
niistake not, in every case the same. The extent
of the records found in these ruins and their rela-
tion to the has-relief is such, that there can be no
doubt that they will one day be deciphered, and
that thus the history of ancient times will have
IttXINS OF NINEVEH. 135
been transmitted directly down to us without the
possibility of any forgery. That their solution
will confirm and throw li~ht upon Holy Writ we
may also hope; and especially as there was in
Scripture times much intercourse between Assyria
and the IJoly Land. In order to ensure the 0reat-
est accuracy in the preservation of these records,
Mon5, Botta has not only copied them with cx-
treme care, but he has had impressions of the1
taken on palier, by means of which the originals
can at any time be reproduced by a casting of wax
or plaster of Paris.
As if to leave nothing undone that would serve
to bring these ruins within the reach of the curi-
ous, two of the monster oxen which were in a per-
fect state of preservation, have been cut in five
pieces with the view to send them to Paris, where
they are destined to guard the main entrance to the
royal (?) Museum. Thirty of the best preserved
blocks containing has-reliefs have also been re-
moved, and will probably not be separated from
their guardian cheruhiin.* These were trans-
ported to the Tigris on cannon carriages furnished
by the Pasha of Mosul, and from there upon rafts
floated by inflated skins, to the mouth of the river,
and will he carried eventually around the Cape of
Good Hope to their final destination. A small
bronze lion, weighing say seventy-five pounds,
was the only metallic antiquity found that is wor-
thy of notice. It had a staple in its hack which
was evidently once connected by a chain with a
similar staple fixed in the floor. Besides this the
only relics which remain to he noticed are some
images made of clay and baked in a furnace.
They were found in cavities under a brick pave-
ment, which exists in the inner part of each en-
trance. This pavement is composed of two layers,
and the cavities were formed by leaving out a
single brick from the lower layer. For what use
these hidden images were intended, can only be a
matter of conjecture. Were the tutelary deities,
placed there to guard the entrances to this monu-
ment of art I
To remove any indistinct and incorrect im-
pressions that may have been received from, read-
ing the above account of these ruins, it may he
well to prevent a general view of them in another
form. For this purpose, with such light as our
observation of their present state affords, we will
endeavor to describe the construction and over-
throw of this palace, temple, monument of Ninus,
or, whatever else it be, this depository of ancient
archives. For its base there was erected an oval
mound, nearly half a nub in circumference, and
twenty feet in heighth above the surroundin,g
plain. Over the level surface of this, a layer of
sand, brought from the Tigris, was spread about a
foot in thickness. This foruied the floor and foun-
dation of the whole building, and was made hard
by means of stone rollers, (some of which have
been found,) in the same manner as the roofs of
buildings are treated throughout the southern part
of Turkey in Asia at the present day. Besides
the doorways, the floor was nowhere covered, ex-
cept in such places as were peculiarly exposed
for instance, near the walls ;and here are found
two layers of kiln-burnt brick, one above and one
below the stratum of sand. Upon this foundation
thus prepared, the walls of the building were
erected. These were of sun-dried brickfrom ten
to fifteen feet in thickness, and faced everywhere,
* See Art. Oherub in - ohinson, Calm t. 136 RUINS OF NINEVEHSCRAPS.
next the floor, both within and without, with blocks Flandin, a French artist. This gentleman, be-
of sulphate of lime, ten inches thick, ten feet high, sides being master of his profession, brought to
and of different breadths, and these were covered this field extensive experience, acquired in similar
on the exposed surface with inscriptions and has- labors among the ruins of Persepolis. his aim in
reliefs. Above these blocks or slabs, the wall was performing the part assigned him, has been to
faced with a tier of of kiln-dried brick, painted represent with distinctness and accuracy, the size
straw-colored on the inside. How high this tier and character of the mound, the ground plan and
of bricks extended, we have no roeans of determin- elevation of the walls, and the present state of all
ing. Its top must have been at least sixteen feet the has-reliefs and sculptures, leaving injured por-
above the floor, as a few of the stones lining the tions and imperfections in the ruins to appear in
wall were of this heighth; and probably it was the drawings, and to be restored and improved or
considerably higher, else the oxen at the doorways not, as may suit the taste and imagination of those
must have reached nearly to the ceiling of the who may examine his records.
rooni, and accordingly must have been, as to size, We understand that it is proposed to publish the
altogether out of taste. Upon the walls, and inscriptions and drawings in four folio volumes,
reaching from one to the other, were immense tim- each volume to contain about a hundred plates
hers, (a few preserved fragments of which have half being inscriptions and half plans and draughts.
been found,) more than thirty feet in length; and It is sufficient assurance of the character of this
UI)Ofl them, to complete the roof, was a layer of forthcoming work, to say that it is in the hauds of
earth, probably of considerable thickness. Thus, the French government, and that it will be per-
it will be seen, a building was constructed worthy formed in the best style of the best artists of
of the simplicity of the first ages of the world, and France.
in strange contrast with the sculptures that formed In conclusion, the writer would beg not to he
its ornaments, considered accountable for anything more than the
Without doubt the building was destroyed by general accuracy of the foregoing statements.
fire. Enough charcoal exists among the ruins to The fact that he writes six months after visiting
justify this supposition, and also the one that wood the ruins, while several hundred miles distant
was employed about the doors and roof. Further, from them, and at intervals of time crowded with
the calcination of a portion of some of the stones, other important duties, is his apology fur this
and especially of their exposed surfaces, shows this remark.
to have been the fact. If, now, there were several l3noOsA, ASIA MINoR, April 5, 1845.
feet of earth upon the roof, and if after the falling
of this, portions of that part of the wall lined only VEGETABLE NoN-CoNnucToR. Q)The beech
with brick tumbled inward, it can easily be seen tree erican paper, under the heading
that the rooms were soon filled up with rubbish 50 of says an Am
high as to bury the stones that faced the lower be a a thing that ought to he known,is said to
part of the wall. In some parts of the building non-conductor of lightning. So notorious is
these stones may not have been completely buried, the fact, that the Indians, whenever the sky wears
and hence succeeding generations may have found the appearance of a thunder-storm, leave their pur-
and removed these portions, without being aware suits, and take refuge under the nearest beech-tree.
In T
of, or without caring to remove, those which ennessee, the people consider it a complete
remain. If this has been the case, it will explain protection. Dr. Becton, in a letter to Dr. Mitchell,
the fact that thu outlines of other rooms than those states that the beech-tree is never known to he
enumerated in our description can be traced, struck by atmospheric electricity, while other trees
although the stones which lined their walls are are often shattered into splinmers.Atlrenrreoi.
not to be found. That such stones once existed, MINERAL REGION OF LARE SuPERIoRA letter
is inferred from the analogy of the rooms which addressed to M. Elie de Beaumont, of Paris, gives
are more perfectly preserved, and from the fact some account of the copper and silver mines re-
that the doorways of these rooms, like the other cently discovered at Kewena Point, on the son thorn
main passage-ways, are guarded by tIme monster shore of Lake Superior. I found there, he says,
oxen before describedwhich were probably so an interesting mineral region. The copper pre-
large as to be immovable by any power that the sents itself generally in the metallic state ; fillin
pilferer of the works of his predecessors could all the cavities of an amygdaloid trap, disposed in
command. banks of great thickness, intersecting the layers of
Before closing this account, it will be but a just old red free-stone and of conglomerate which form
tribute of merit to say a few words respecting the this portion of the banks of Lake Superior. [he
gentlemen who have been engaged in developing metal is found both pure and in combination with
the ruins now described. Mons. Botta, the dis- silverenclosing spiculn and grains of pure silver
coverer, is son of Botta, author of the I-history withmn its massand silver crystalized, in amigular
of the Anmerican Revolution. He has been for globules adhering to the mixed metal. In some
many years a traveller in foreign countries, is places, veins of pure silver intersect great masses of
acquainted with various langoages, and is by copper, containing a silver alloy of no more than
nature a roan of taste amid accurate discrinmination. from one to three in a thmonsand in these cases, the
With all these qualifications, however, had he not veins appear to have formed themselves within the
ado the investigation & antiquities a study, and mass by a process of segregation. I have found
had he riot, by experience in Egypt, become aware pieces of copper and silver so united together that
of the value of accurate details in publications they might be beaten (lot imito thin plates. The
relating to this, his favorite science, he must often silver, it is supposed, is separated from the copper,
have f iled to record facts, the importance of at a high temperature, by some unknown law of
which none hut those learned in this branch of segregation. Metallic silver, pure, is also found
knowledge are prepared to appreciate. abundantly, diffused thromighout the amygdaloid
The work of making the plans and drawing the rock, in small grains, or lumps of the size of a
sculptures and has-reliefs, was committed to Mona. pea.Atherneum. THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. 137
CHAPTER XII.
An hour or two afterwards, Agnes put on her
bonnet and shawl, resolving, amid the quiet and
healing spirit of vernal nature, to enter into calm
communion with her own heart, and to take, if it
were possible, more cheering and Christian views
of the life around her. When she reached the
dingle, where she had first seen poor Fanny Jeff-
kins child, her thoughts fixed themselves upon
that subject; and seating herself upon the fallen
tr~e, as she had done on that former occasion, she
began to ponder upon the strange destiny which
ad linked her to this little friendless human being,
and to discover, if she could, a gleam of light,
which, amid the utter darkness which at present
enveloped her, should point out the true path of
her duty regarding it.
As she thus sat, her cousin Torn rode slowly up
the little bridle-path through the dingle. He
looked unusually handsome and ay. and was lash-
ing his riding-whip in the exuberance of animal
spirits. He did not see Agnes; he had not the
least expectation of meeting her there, and the
leafy bushes concealed her as he passed ; and,
oeeupie(l by his own thoughts, which, whatever
they might he, seemed happy ones, he never
looked hAtind, and Agnes, with a flushing cheek
nd a suddenly-beating heart, watched him till he
was out of sight.
It was a small incident; but at that moment it
caused a great agitation in her feelings. Al-
tnighty Father! prayed she, inwardly, preserve
my heart from sliding into any unworthy passion.
Give me grace to know what is thy will, and
ability to do it! Be thou my friend and comforter;
for beside thee I have none!
She rose up, and walked on in the direction
pposite to that which her cousin had taken. She
took the path which led to the sequestered wood-
nd lane, and presently came to a little sylvan
nook, where bubbled up a remarkably fine spring,
-vhich was said to possess medicinal virtues, and
to which the country people came for water from
a great distance. A little girl was filling a bottle
as Agnes came up; she was stoopin~, and it was
not until she rose that Agnes recognized her to be
the girl from the caravan.
Oh, miss, said the girl, her countenance sud-
denly lighting up, I am so glad to see you.
Mother is so badly, she cannot get up now, and
I ye come to this spring to fetch her some water;
they say it is good for sick folks!
I have been to seek for you before, said
Agnes; but you were not in the lane.
We ye been out for a week, said the girl;
but mother s so bad again, and she would come
back, for she says she shall die The girl
said no more for weeping, but trudged on with her
bottle, wiping her eyes, as she went, with the
corner of her ragged shawl.
And how is the baby ? asked Agnes,
cheerfully, walking quickly to keep up with the
girl.
Oh, miss ! replied she, and cried more than
ever.
Is the baby ill or dead l asked Agnes,
alarmed.
No, no, said the girl; bttt when mother s
dead what s to become of us Father does not
love the baby it makes him cross only to hear
him laughing !
God will provide for him ! said Agnes, trust-
LXXV. LIVING AGE. VOL. VII. 9
fully; and, without another word, they walked
onwards.
A strong-built man, with a surly, sun-freckled
countenance, in a faded velveteen jacket, and
leather leggings, was locking to~etl~er the feet of
a bony, ill-conditioned horse, which he seemed to
have released from a smaller caravan as Agnes
approached. A stiff and choleric-looking bull-
terrier sprang, barking fiercely, to meet her as far
as his chain would permit. At this the man turned
round.
rhe lady s come to see mother, said the girl
timidly. The man touched his hat and muttered
something, but whe titer in good or ill will it was
unpossible to say. Agnes followed the girl up the
steps of the caravan, hoping that her villanous-
looking father would not join them. The dread
of him, however, left her when she saw the pallid,
and, as it appeared to her, death-stricken counte-
nance of the poor woman.
The young lady s come to see you, mother,
said the girl, bending down to the miseTable bed on
which she lay.
The woman opened her eyes and welcomed her
visiter with a faint smile; at the same moment a
lusty little form raised itself from under the quilt,
and the baby, roused out of a rosy slumber, looked
around hins with gravely wondering eyes. The
man, in the mean time, had seated himself on the
steps of the caravan, and began smoking from a
short and very much discolored pipe.
Shut the door, Mary, said the woman, for
the smoke is enough to poison one.
The girl shut the door, and, taking up the child,
sat down with him on a three-legged stool. Her
mother, however, bade her take him out, and
Agnes amid she were then alone togefuer. She
then raised herself in the bed, and fanning her now
flushed face with an old handkerchief, thanked
Agnes for thus visiting her. I have thought a
deal about you, said she, and I dont know
what it was that made me at once open my heart
to you as I did.
I wish to be your friend, said Agnes.
God bless you ! returned the woman. I
am not long for this life; hut there are some
things which are very hard with me. I have made
my husband promise that when I die, he will bury
me in Lawford churchyard by my own father and
mother. They were decent folks, and have a
gravestone of their own. It may not matter to m~e
after I am gone, but it would make my end easier
to know that I should lie near themfor that
reason we came here. My husband hates Law-
ford, and all the folks in it, and we ye suffered
sorely, sure enough, among them; but, for all
that, I must be buried in Lawford churchyard.
Another thing, however, is hard; he wont let me
send for the clergyman, for it s old Colvilles sour
who helped the squire to put him in jail, and
brought all our troubles on us! But G help
me! am I to die without the sacrament, or so
much as a prayer read beside me! Oh, niiss, I
never thought to have died like a beggar in a
ditch! And then there s the baby, continued
she, as if her pent-up heart must vent all its
troubles. As I told you, it s rightly none of
mineGod knows whose it is! But my husband
conceits that it belongs to the ball; and though,.
as it were, we were paid to take it, he hates it be-
cause he hates all the Lawfords; and she that is
to be my childrens step-mother when I m gone,.
will be the death of the child !THE AUTHOR~ S DAUOHTER.
Agnes thought of the surly-countenanced man,
and his hatred to all the Lawfords, and a shudder
ran through her; hut of this she said nothing.
God will find friends for the child, she re-
plied fear not, hut put your trust in God, and
he will provide friends for you hoth !
There was an earnestness and an assurance in
her voic~ which fixed the womans attention, and,
looking at her, she waited as if for farther corn-
fort.
I can see, continued Agnes, the hand of
God at work for you ; only put your trust in him
repine not, hut helieve him to he your God and
your Saviour. You have put confidence in me
put confidence then in Him, who may make me
the humble instrument of his mercy to you !
I said that you were an angel of God, re-
turned the woman, and I could not help opening
my heart to you. Send me only some good man
to pray hy mesome good clergyman to administer
the sacrament. But let it not he a Colville !
Agnes thought, as she had done from the first,
of poor Jeffkiiis. I know a good man, said
she, hut he is no clergyman, although, as a
Methodist, he has preached up and down among
the poor in country-places. He has suffered much,
and can sympathize with sorrow and misery.
And where is he? asked the woman eagerly.
Agnes said that he was in London.
God help me ! returned the poor woman,
in a tone of disappointment; is there no good
man nearer than London I
This is the man whom you must see; this is
the man who will he both father and mother to
the child when you are gone, said Agnes: only,
for the liresent, put confidence in God, and in
~nae !
And who are you? asked the woman, and
~why do you thus care for me?
My name is of no consequence, returned
Agnes, rememhering the hatred which the wo-
:man~s husband cherished to all who bore the name
of Lawford; believe only this, that God will
~send you comfort through me
With this, Agnes, after promising to come
again, if possible, look her leave; the man was
gone fro1 the steps of the caravan, but the ugly
dog growled at her as if in the spirit of his master.
It was with quite different feelings that A goes,
on her return, thought of the great party at Merley
Park, and of the mortification which she had en-
dured only a few hours since regarding it. That
part & f her duty which had hitherto seemed to her
dim and inexplicable, now hogan to reveal itself
clearly ; she blessed God that his hand seemed
thus unexpectedly leading her to Christian acts of
love and service. All cravin~ for her own per-
sonal indulgence was appeased; a light and cheer-
ful spirit of self-sacrifice and devotion to others
infused new vigor into her mind, and made it easy
to say, Thy will he done
The dinner, however, at the hall was silent and
conshained. The only one who seemed quite at
his ease was Tom, who laughed and talked with
more than his usual gaiety: Ada, who expected
within so few hours to meet Mr. Latimer, was
silent and thoughtful; so also was her father,
who, though he had overcome his excitement of
temper, and who knew, on reflection, that it was
no use opposing his sister, yet thought it only
right for the sake of his own dignity to keep up
some show of resentment; whilst Mrs. Colvil~e, as
was always the case on such occasions, attended
to the proprieties of the table with the gravest of
demeanors.
The hall-going part of the company went to
dress.
Where is Agnes? asked Tom, as Ada,
beautiful as human skill could make her, came
into the drawing-room ready dressed.
Agnes at that moment entered, anxious to show
her fair cousin that she could feel sympathy and
interest in a pleasure which she was not allowed
to partake.
Why are you not dressed, Agnes ? asked
Tom.
She stays with my father, said Ada. It is
most noble and unselfish of her, continued she;
and I wish, Tom, you could have seen how
charming she looked in her new dress. I wish
you were going, Agnes; I wish, indeed, from v
soul that you were, said she, addressing her
with such cordial enthusiasm of voice as she had
never shown towards her before.
Agnes was taken by surprise, and the tear-
sprang to her eyes: I cannot wish it now,
said she; indeed, dearest Ada, I cannot! These
words of yours, this kindness of yours, which my
disappointment has won me, are worth txventy
balls !
It is very strange, said Tom, in a dissatisfied
voice, that my father cannot spare you for one
evening only !
At this moment Mrs. Colville entered, dressed
and perfumed like a bed of gilhiflowers; and as
she came in, she said that the carriage was wait-
ing. All three went down stairs. Agnes stood
at the window, and saw them, in the clear moon-
light of the summer evening, drive away. She
watched the carriage till it was out of sight, and
felt in the bottom of her heart a blank when she
saw it no longer.
Her uncle had said, in the morning, that he did
not want her that evening. When, however, he
sat alone in his little library, he. felt as if he could
not do without her. Shall I send for her?
thought he to himself, and as he thus was think-
ing, Agnes entered. He was evidently so glad to
see her; laughed so merrily, and seetned so in-
clined to joke even about nothing at all, that spite
of the morning, spite of the afternoon, spite of the
little yielding of heart which had come over her
but a few minutes before, she could not help being
infected by the old mans spirit. They were sit-
ting opposite to each other, with the little tea-
equipage between them, the uncle laughin~ till
tears ran down his cheeks, at one of those amusing
anecdotes which Agnes used to tell now and then
for his entertainment, when the door was flung
wide open, and, with an air of the utmost impor-
tance, the footman announced Mr. Latimer !
God bless my soul ! exclaimed the old gen-
tleman, rising from his chair, and seizing in both
his the hand of this unexpected visiter; who
thought of seeing you, Mr. Latimer? Only think!
all my family are just gone to Merley Park in cx-
pectation of meeting you! God bless me ! again
exclaimed he, laughing, this is a pretty joke
I did not care about going to Morley Park,
returned Mr. Latimer; I preferred spending a
quiet evening with you.
Bravo ! shouted the old gentleman, flinging
himself back into his chair. But I forgot, Mr.
Latimer, said he, again rising himself, this is
my niece, Miss Agnes Lawford. Poor Franks
daughteryou have heard of his death perhaps.
138 THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. 139
Latim~r offered his hand to Agnes, and said that
Mrs. A.cton had mentioned her being there.
Yes, said the old gentleman, poor Frank
has been dead these six or seven monthsperhaps
more.
Agnes glanced beseechingly at her uncle, for
her fathers death was a subject which it was
painful for her to hear spoken of. She felt Lat-
liners eyes upon her, and blushed deeply, she
knew not why.
Never was old Mr. Lawford so merry in all his
life before. It amused him beyond measure, to
think of Mrs. Colville, and his son and daughter,
oein~ gone to Merley Park to meet Mr. Latimer,
and here he was all the time! Only think,
said he, they would not let poor Agnes go, al-
though she had got new things, lest she should
see you, most likelyand now here you are !
Agnes was miserable, to hear her uncle talk
thus; Mr. Latimer tried to ifirn the snbject, but he
would revert to it continually. We shall have the
laugh against them famously, Agnes, said he.
We 11 tell them how well Mr. Latimer is look-
ing, and all the rest. My word! but my old lady
sister will be ready to swear from vexation, al-
Jiough she is Archdeacon Colvilles widow !
Mr. Latimer at length sobered down the old
gentleman; and made him listen to some grave
details, relating to public affairs. Whilst this is
the case, we will briefly describe to our readers
the exterior of the person, of whom so much has
been said. Jn age Mr. Latimer might be five or
six-and-thirty, and was about the middle height,
well-made and proportioned. The countenance,
however, was a very striking one; as full of firm-
ness and decision, as even John Colvilles, but the
effect on the beholder was very different. In Col-
ville, the first thing which was seen was that
strong, determined character, which conveyed
vith it the feeling of cool calculation, and an iron,
hot selfish, will ; yet whilst you wondered at the
totelluctual magnitude of the man, you were not
ttracted by him. In Latirner, on the contrary,
bat extraordinary power and strength of character
which the countenance indicated, was so mellowed,
so softened, nay, so almost glorified by a beaming
expression of goodness and truth, that you were
mediately attracted. You felt that the character
of which that countenance was the index was
one on which you might rely iii life and death.
You fttlt at once tli~ t a perfect gentleman, in the
noblest meanin~ of the word, was before you; and
vct there s-as. at the same time, such a social,
companionable charm and fascination in his man-
ner, all was so perfectly natural and true, that
nccasionally you forgot even how very superior he
was; von were drawn into his sphere, where
wuth and goodness were the native element, aiid
Kien, it was only by the jarring effect of other per-
sons .~ anners and sentiments that you found with
now superior a nature you had been in commu-
mon.
Agnes, perhaps of all human beings, was the
one roost cap~ ble of fcelio~ and appreciating the
value and beauty of such a character; her own
idolized father had been such a one. She sat, as
to a dream, and listened to his finely modulated
voice; occasionally her eye met his, and there
was a kindred expression in it, which touched her
Imost to tears. She wondered to herself, whether
he had ever read her fathers works; she passed
them in review through her mind, and dwelt men-
tally upon the particular passages and trains of
thought, which she would have liked to read to
him, or to hear him read. She thoiyht of Ada,
and of the idea which had always suggested itself
to her mind, that this was the husband her family
desired for her. She thought of Adas cold, re-
served, and haughty character, which, until this
very evening, had evinced towards her so little
kindness and sympathy. Adas conduct to h~r
was inexplicable; but then, Mrs. Acton, that
worthy sister of such a brother, had spoken mit
her with the warmest affection. Yes, there was
no doubt of it, Ada would be his wife, his beauti-
ful wife; and spite of her coldness and haughti-
ness, there was true womanly, noble feeling in
her soul and being there, would not a life-long
companion, like Latimer, foster it and call it forum
into the most beautiful bloom, as the sun calls
forth the flowers of summer?
Such were the thoughts which passed through
the mind of Agnes, whilst Mr. Latimer was ex-
plaining at some length, a subject on which her
uncle had asked for information. Agnes was
roused from her reverie, and the thread of Mr
Latimers explanation was broken suddenly by
the very audible breathing of the old gentleman,
who, buried in a corner of his easy chair, was
fast asleep. Agnes and Latimer looked at each
other and smiled.
My uncle often sleeps in an evening, said
she.
He used to do so two years ago, returned
Latimer, drawing his chair sufficiently near for
them to talk without disturbing him. How it
was, Agnes really could not tell, but, some way
or other, she found herself, with tears on her
cheeks, speaking of her father. They had been
talking together for an hour. Latimer did not
seem to have said very much ; he had not even
told her, whether he had read her fathers works,
but she felt that he knew his character well, and
that be appreciated and loved him. It was the
first time that she had ever talked thus freely of
her father and her family, since her home had
been among strangers. He had asked her partic-
ularly of her brothers, and she had told him of
Arthur, with his manly beauty, and his bold
spirit, and of little Harry, who was timid and
lovely as a girl. She had told him of her mother,
so go(id and gentle, and (if her excellent uncle in
Scotlandall this she told to a stranger, within
the first few hours of meeting him; and she
might have gone on even farther, had not her
uncle awoke, arid, apolmigizing for his little doze,
again denianded Mr. Latimers attention. Ag-
nes, now, however, thrown back on silence and
herself, felt ashanmed and troubled by what she
had done; she thought of the impropriety of ham-
ing talked so much ; it all seemed folly and im-
pertinence to her; she feared appearing ridicu-
lous in his eyes, and that deep feeling which had
made her tonchingly eloquent at the time, seemed
now to her like sentimental garrulity. What
will he think of me l How foolish 1 must appear
to him ! thought she, and hardly ventured to
raise her eyes. lIe too seemed silent and
thoughtful.
Her uncle insisted on her telling Mr. Latimer
that funny anecdote, at which he was lau5hing
when he was first announced. Agnes prayed to
be excused; she felt as if she could not tell it for
the world: hot her uncle declared that he would
not excuse her; and then, how like an an~el
Latimer seemed! he declared that he would have 140 THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER.
the privilege of telling droll anecdotes that night,
and nobody should interfere with him. He told
many most amusing stories, some of them about
the negroes on his own plantation, and Mr. Law-
ford declared that he was much improved in story-
telling, and that Agnes was not to he named with
him.
After this, Latimer rose to take his leave, nor
could the old gentleman persuade him to stay
until the ladies returned, although he promised
that if he would, they would all go into the draw-
ing-room, which was quite warm, and where was
the piano, and Agnes should give him some of
the finest music and songs that he had ever heard.
But though Latimer declared that of all things he
should like to hear Miss Agnes Lawford sing, yet
he would not stay.
He is a wayward, perverse fellow ! said the
old gentleman, when he was gone: but, bless
my soul! what a laugh we shall have against
Mrs. Colville and the others.
CHAPTER XIII.
Mr. Lawford had his laugh against his sister
Colville the next day; but however annoyed that
lady might in reality be, she had tact enough to
let nothing of it be seen ; and the old gentleman
was n~t sure whether, after all, he had had a
triumph or not, more particularly as Mr. Latimer
himself made an especial c 11 that morning oit the
ladies of the family, which appeare(l greatly to
satisfy them, and which occurring whilst he was
out in hts bath chair, and A~ nes was in her own
chamber, neither one or the other had any part in.
Agnes was writing to Jeffkins; it was a difficult
task to her, arid while thus doing, very soon after
Latimer had taken his departure, the door of the
dressing-room, which divided her chamber front
her cousins, was soddenly opened, and Ada look-
to in, said in her occasionally abrupt manner,
but with an expression of affectioiiate tenderness
in her countenance, May I come in? or rather,
added site, again withdrawing, will you come
in here?
Agnes, very much astonished, hastily put
aside her writing, and entered the roont, which
was rather a boudoir than dressiiig-room. Ada
seated herself on a sofa, before which stood a
xvritiitg-table, and motioned to Agnes to do the
same.
No doubt, Agnes, she said, my conduct at
this montent appears very extraordinary; but I
think I can make it ititelligible to you. I know,
at all events, that roy colditess and reservethe
ltttle sympathy and interest I for a bug time felt
towards you, oust have wounded you, and must
have given you a very unfavorable idea of my
ch:mracter: but I can explain the cause of thisI
had strong prejudices against you.
Agaitist me ! interrupted Agnes.
Yes; I believed myself to have been un-
kindly treated by you. Do not interrupt me,
said she hastily. I shall in the end explain it
all to you, and having resolved to do us both
justice by this explanation, let mc go on uninter-
ruptedly.
You shall ! said Agnes.
I met you, continued Ada, with a strong
prepossession in your disfavora strong resent-
mertt against you; and it is n(tt now any merit in
tne to wish to. reconcile us to each other, for I
have been fairly conquered and won by yourown
goodness. I will not deny to you that I have
striven not to like you; to see even sinister mo-
tives for your noblest conduct; but it availed not.
There is an omnipotence in virtue which muist
conquer even the prejudices of wounded vanity
and aunbition. It has been your uniform unsel-
fishutess and gentleness, whilst you have been
here ; yottr willingness to bury, as it were, all
your fine accomphishtnents and gifts in nmy poor
fathers dreary room, that have made me willing
to do you justice : but tiothing, after all, touched
me like your cottduct yesterday ; before that
every little lingering Iride and unkindness itt my
heart gave way. Agnes took her hand without
speaking, and with her lie rt upon her lips, kissed
it tenderly.
And now, continued Ada, for my confes-
stun. A mantlitug bluish covered her beautiful
face, and she pattsed fbr a moment, as if hardly
knoxviutg how to begiut.
And into your coitfession, dearest cousitt,
said Agites, of course Mr. Latimer comes.
Yes, said Ada, as if determined no longer
to hesitate; and as you have seen Latimer, yomt
caummot wonder at it. Mr. Latiuuuer has remotely,
and directly, been the mnaituspring of my action2
from the day when I first saw him. I was then
a girl of twelve, and he a young man of five-and-
twenty; he was the aduniration of my girlish
heart. I went to school, and even there cherished
a romantic passion for bun ; had my bosom-friend,
and to her confided the knowledge of a little arno-
let, which I wore muexm toy hearttwo lines of hic
handwriting! Oh, how ridiculous it now seems,
said she smiling; two lines of tender poetry
which by chance had come into my possessiout.
My amulet, or my owut glowing fancy, created a
very sentimental and romantic passion, which was
only increased by my own family and by circum-
stances, when at sevetuteen I rettirned home, and
began my career as a youtuug lady, of some little
pretensions in the world. Mr. Latimer was the
frietid of the family; the most welcome guest at
the house, and more welcome to me than to amiy
one else. Do not, however, Agnes, run way
with the idea that the regard was all on my side;
at this mime, and even fuir two years, I believe he
had a very sincere regard for toe. To the aston-
ishtment, however, of all roy family, Mr. Latimer
never made any open declaration of love. Had
he been other than himself, my family would lout6
before have bromighit the affair to a conclusion one
way or another; but he was not a nuan to be tri-
fled with, nor one to be suspected of dishonorable
trifling. I huowever knew, what my family did
not, the tmute umuotives of his reluctance to avow
hiunself. Great as was his regard, perhaps even
his love for me, there were many faults in uny
character; much triflitug; much female weakness;
much wilfulness and vanity, which offended his
high and pnire notions of womanly worth, and
which he could not tolerate in the woman whom
he would make his wife. Ah, what grave lec-
tures did he give me, when my family hoped that
love was the theme of our discourse! and I, re-
bellious and unworthy creature that I was, profited
nothing by them! I was piqued that he could
not find charms enough in what the world called
my beauty, to conceal all my follies and my
shorteounings. I ran into excesses of vanity and
coquetry, which gave me but little pleasure, on
purpose to annoy him. Oh, Agnes, said she,
with tears in her eyes, what self-condemnation
and sorrow did not this afterwards cause me! THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. 141
Mr. Latimer, unlike all my family, was well
ucquainted with your fatbers writings. Politics
and such subjects were rarely introduced in dis-
cussion between my family and him, because it
was amicably understood that on these they tacitly
differed and my Aunt Colville wished for the
match too devoutly to have tbe good understand-
ing among them endangered by any controversy on
politics or such subjects. To me, however, Mr.
Latimer often spoke upon them; your father was
his apostle; he quoted him, he read to me pas-
sages from his works, and kindled iu my imind the
utmost enthusiasm for him, although, with a fool-
ish perversity of heart, I never would confess the
smallest admiration or even approval of his opin-
ions. Of coorse he advocated the more solid edu-
cation of women ; he cared little, or seemed to
care little for my accomplishments, which every
one beside praised so much, and yet I knew that
he had taste for these things. His wife, he used
to say, must be his friend and his companion, not
his mere plaything. Such sentiments as these
from the lips of the man I loved, awoke in me new
views and a new amobitido, although a sort of way-
ward pride prevented me from confessing as much.
Just at that time I had a new lover, a fashionable
man of the world, who offered to all my outward
attractions that incense of which Mr. Latiiner was
so sparing. I had not the slightest regard for him;
but, in the vain wish of piquing Mr. Latimer, I
coquetted with him tremendously. My Aunt Col-
ville never was so angry with me in all her life
before. It is now two years since; and, in the
midst of this flirtation, Mr. Latimer announced his
intention of leaving England for two years. Jt
as to me like the shock of an earthquake, and
sobered me directly. We met but twice after-
wards; once at a large dinner-party, when it
seemed to rue that he shonned me ; and yet never
shall I forget his quiet and almost dejected ex-
pression of countenanceit spoke volumes to my
heart; and the other, the evening before he sailed,
at our own house; and, when at parting, he ex-
pressed his expectation of finding me married on
his return. But for his sake, Agnes, I have kept
singlefor his sake, also, my family have not
urged my marriage with any of my numerous
lovers.
When Mr. Latimer was gone, continued
Ada, I had time to ponder upon all his teach-
ings; and the better part of toy nature, which he
had aroused, and had done all in his power to
foster, made its voice be heard. I resolved, during
his absence, to make myself worthy of him; to
surprise him on his return by my improved char-
acter and my matured mind. I had only to wish,
and my partial friends gratified all my desires;
besides which they had some little compassion for
me, I believe, thinking that I must suffer from
Ir. Latimers coldness or desertion. Pleasure
tours were therefore made, and all possible things
were done to divert my mind. To their surprise,
ho ever, they found that I neither pined nor was
sad; the truth was, that I was well pleased with
his absence, because in it there was a stimulus to
improvement. I had now an object to attain, and
for that I strove ardently. I had this little room
fitted up as my boudoir, with a good lock on the
door to secure me from intrusion ; and hereit is
almost laughable to think of itI sat down to
study deep things; to mature my understanding;
to gain knowledge, that I might be worthy of hini,
might prove to hint on his return how sincere were
all my endeavors, even if I did not greatly suc-
ceed.
Mr. Latimer had a high opinion of my powers
of mind ; at least, so he always said; and he was
so entirely authority with me that I was convinced
that my efforts at self-improvement would succeed.
And now, dear Agnes, said she, what do you
suppose were the first books which I read? They
were the works of my uncle! yes, those works
which my fantily dreaded, and which Mr. Latimer
admired so much ! You wotild smile were I to
tell you the little artifice I had recourse to, to get
possession of them, but I succeeded; and here
they are, said she, opening a deep drawer in her
table, and their worn state will convince you of
the use I made of them. No one knows to this
day that I am possessed of them. I established
the system of locking my room; it was my humor,
and no one objected. From the time of my ac-
quaintance with these glorious works a new life
dawned upon me. I began to see things, as it
were, from a truer point of view, and they assumed
new positions aiid a new relative value. Never
shall I forget that timethat breaking in of a new
lightthe light of truth My veneration for my
uncle was unbounded, but I kept it all to myself;
a new bond seemed mysteriously to be woven be-
tween Mr. Latimer and myself. I was supremely
happy. Every one complimented me on my im-
proved looksit was the intelligence of mind in
my countenance t.hat iniproved it. I was no longer
impatient now for Mr. Latimcrs return; I seemed
to have yet so much to do before he came!
My Aunt Colville has told you, continued
she, after a short pause, that I also am a genius
an authoress God help inc ! so I wished to
be. Iliad a little talent in poetry. As a child,
and at school even, I had written ; my family
thought highly of my productions, and even Mr.
Latimer, to whom they had been shown, had not
disdained to praise them. Poetry was my deliDht;
poetry of a high orderShelley, and Byron, and
Coleridge, and Wordsworth, and Campbell, and
Milton, and Shakspeare :they were my text-
books. There they are, said she, turning her
beaming countenance towards her handsome book-
case, where the most expensive editions of these
poets shone in rich bindiiigs and gold. There
they are, the immortal seven, whom I, poor aspir-
ing worm, tried to emulate! I wroteand a
daring, and yet, perhaps, after all, a wise idea
took possession of my niind. I copied out most
carefully and most elaborately, on hot-pressed
paper, and in a handsome book, such poems as I
coitsidered my master-piecesand the book was
full.
With these words, she paused, and opening her
desk took ont a handsome, album-like volume,
which instantly scented strangely familiar to
Agnes eyes.
Of all men in England, continued Ada, I
longed for the approbation and encouragement of
your father. I wrote therefore to him a letter,
whiclt I meant to be modest and humble, arid
which, I intended, should recomniend myself to
him. I think it possible, however, that it was
full of self-love and presumption. I concealed my
name, avowed my aspirings after distinction, and
besought his advice and encouragement, request-
ing him to read my volume, and give me his opin-
ion thereon. With the most unspeakable impa-
tience, I longed for his reply. I counted the days
till it should come. I had no doubt but that he 142 THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER.
would praise my efforts and request my name. I
thought with pride of making myself known to
him. I arran~ed the letter I would write. I would
confess to him my ardent wish for improvement
I would make him my moral and intellectual
fatherI would sit at his feet and learn! Never,
Agnes, had I h een so proud of my heauty, even
when 1 wished most to captivate the proud heart
of Mr. Latimer, as when I thought of sending to
your father my miniaturethat he inightsee and
love his spiritual daughter. I thought of the
purses I would net for himof the slippers I
would work for him, of the birth-day and Christ-
mas presents I would send him !Ah, Agnes, I
know how it was; I wanted incense to be offered
to my vanity, and how little was I prepared for
the answer that was returned !
Agnes sat with her head bowed down, and her
heart transpierced with the keenest sympathy: her
feelings were intense agonybut she said nothing,
and Ada continued.
My hot-pressed and handsomely bound vol-
ume, and my delicately copied verses, came back,
and with them these cold words, in answer to my
long and warm epistle.She took a note from
between the leaves of the book, and read:
Much as my time is necessarily occupied, I
have gone through your verses. You ask my ad-
vice : it is, in a few words, thisRead more, and
write less ; or rather, write not at all.
I employ an amanuensis to write, but remain,
dear madam,
Yours faithfully,
FRANK LAwFoan.
I remember it! ah, I remember it! exclaim-
ed Agnes, in deepest pity for the poor girl.
Alas! that ever seemingly unkind words were
written to you. But, dearest Ada, my father had
so delicate a sense of excellence as made him seem
severe, perhaps; but he was not less severe to
himself.
With an air of painful abstraction Ada ol
again at the note, and then, anced
folding it together,
kept it in her hand, and continued, The words
of this note entered my heart like an icy dagger.
I had fancied such a different answer; my enthu-
siastic admiration of all that was good and great
deserved it. I longed for love and encouragement
I net with coldness and repulsion !
For one moment consider, dearest Ada, said
Aanes, anxious above all things to justify her
fithers conduct, which she knew had been wise,
that he was continually applied to by young,
unknown aspirants, who wished to be encouraged
in a path where he knew that failure and mortifi-
cation only awaited them. My father knew what
the world needs from its authors, and he knew
;~lso that to the Young writer, the first mortification,
t!ie first disappointment, even though the unpleas-
ant task was imposed upon him, who was in truth
nothwig but kindness and love, might save the
author from far worse, far more bitter disappoint-
roent afterwards.
It clay be so; no doubt it is, returned Ada,
again speaking in her cold and haughty tone;
but the letter which I so ardently had wished
for, made me doubt if my golden idol were not
claymade me doubt in the truth of noble senti-
ments, and that divine enthusiasm for virtue which
had been kindled in my soul by your fathers pen.
No, Agnes, say wha.t you will, it was a cold, un-
feeling letter. Just, it might be; I am come now
to believe that it was so; but the effect on my
mind at the time, was painful and injurious. Could
we only have inure faith in the good that is in
every one, how niuch more kindly should we act
how touch suffering should we spare each other!
How much unkindness and wrong is often thus
done to young, generous, and aspiring hearts !
Oh, how true is every word you say! re-
turned Agnes, feeling her heart wrung with the
deepest sorrow for the pain which had thus been
inflicted, and yet knowing so truly what were the
motives of her father~s conduct in such cases
And how much my father would have loved you
had he known you ! had those writings you sent
only faithfully portrayed your mind! had he only
seen some revelatioii of the nobler qualities within
you ; for of all men he had the truest and quickest
appreciation of nobility of character.
So 1 believed, said Ada; and for thatren-
son, when I first became aware that there was
within my soul a well-spring of better and higher
action, did I so much covet his counsel and his
support. But, Agiies, said she, speaking now
in a kinder voice, and relaxing from her cold atti-
tude, I must confess to you that this letter pro-
duced on my mind the worst possible effect. If it
mortified niy vanity, it dethroned also my ideal
divinity. Those sentiments in his pages, which I
before had read with a kindling soul, and which
had served as an inspiration to every nobler wish,
now seemed to me like tinsel or niere sound. My
heart no longer glowed towards the writer. I felt
that I had been unkindly treated by him; my en-
thusiastic love had been repelledor, more truly.
I suppose, said she, smiling, and with tears in
her eyes, he wom.mld have said that my vanity was
wounded.
Agnes thought, as she had often done amid her
experience of literary life, how painful it was, and
how pitiable, when a young, glowing, enthusiastic
mind, without, however, adequate powers, is pos-
sessed with a rage for composition, and when the
love for poetry is mistaken for its inspiration. She
knew many a humiliating history of this kind;
and now her heart bled for the suffering which she
saw that it had agaimi caused. But she made no
remark of this nature. That, indeed, was not the
time for it. She was silent; but her eyes spoke
the tenderest affection.
After a pause, Ada continued Soon after this,
the news came of the sudden death of your father.
To me it was a far greater shock than to the rest
of the family. And then your letter came ;my
father wept as he read it. The letter bad to me,
however, an interest and an intelligence which
nobody else could feel it was written by the
daughter of him who had been so much to me.
The letter was praised for its fine style, and natu-
ral and simple expression. I studied it line by line.
I thought what would have been the letter I should
have written on the death of such a father. I be-
lieved that it might have been like yours, for I saw
plainly that your father was all to you which he
h~d once been ideally to me. I, too, wept as I
read it. But the letter was important to me in
another way. I saw by it that you it was who had
been your fathers amanuensis. You had written
the letter which had wotmnded me so bitterly.
Although it bore your fathers signature, for
aught I kmme~v the severe judgment might be your
own. My brother went to the funeral, and I was
impatient to hear his report of you. Bet Tom is
reserved, and has imo talent for description; so all
I heard was, that your grief for your father was THE AUTHOR~S DAUGHTER. 143
excessive, and that you were not handsome. I
tell you his very words, Agnes, said she, smil-
ing, and your womanly vanity may perhaps be
wounded ; but, as a palliative, however, I will tell
you that most of us disagree with Tom, and I am
not sure whether hy this time he, too, has not
altered his opinion. But, to return to the time
when we did not know you. rp0~1~5 report only
confirmed the desire of my family to offer you a
home with us. Of course, I was not consulted
about your coming here; and if 1 had, I perhaps
should not have opposed it under existing circum-
stances; and yet I must confess to you that my
feelings towards you were anything but friendly.
You had written that painful letter to meyou
therefore knew that a young and an aspiring heart
a heart filled with almost bigoted devotion to
your fatherhad been repulsed and wounded: for
aught I knew, you might have added poignancy to
the sting. You, it is true, did not know that I
was the poor poetess who had presumed to lay the
little offering, my only one, at his feet; but Iknew
it, and I knew that it was your hand that had flung
it hack! God forgive me, but my resentment was
strong! and this must account to you for, and, if
it can, excuse mny coldness and my distance to-
wards you for so long.
1 orrrive me! oh, forgive me ! exclaimed
Agnes, with deep emotion. I acknowledge how
little you deserved any severity from us; I ac-
knowledge how noble is this candor on your part.
It was not, however, continued Ada, I
who first did you justiceit was my brother. It
was he who first acknowledged your devotion to
my father; your gentleness, and your unselfish-
ness; your willingness to bury, as it were, all
your fine powers of tuind and beautiful gifts in the
cheerless room of a testy invalid, to whom you
owed no duty. It was Tom who first became con-
scious of this ; and then I began really to see Itow
excellent you were, how truly you carried out into
daily practice all that refined and elevated philoso-
phy which your father taught in his pages. I saw
in you an emanation of his spirit. I saw in you a
realization of that after which I had striven, and I
began to think humbly of myselfI began to covet
your esteem, and next to determine to win it.
This, then, is the truthare we not henceforth
friends ~
Ames fell on the neck of her cousin and wept.
Oh, Ada ! said she, this generous candor on
your part is far nobler than the power to write
smooth versesis far nobler than merely the high-
est hitellect !
That may be, returned Ada, but I had
literary ambitionthat, however, has been hunt-
bled: I will now try to do well, and to deserve
that affection without which my life would be a
blank
CtIAPTEIt xmv.
This revelation of ingenuous and beautiful char-
acter, captivating even in its weaknesses, diffused
a sunshine over the soul of Agnes. A new life
seemed to have begun for her at Lawford; and,
thankful to God for havin~ permitted hearts which
had hitherto seemed closed against her, to unfold
themselves in affection and beauty, and, thankful,
too, in any way to be an agent of Gods provi-
dence, she wrote to poor Jeff kins. She comnmu-
nicated to him the melancholy interview with his
daughter, and the charge which that unhappy girl
had laid upon her. The child, she told him, was
found. She described to him briefly the character
of the people in whose hands it was, the illness of
the woman who had hitherto been a mother to it,
and her desire for a spiritual comforter. She now
conjured him, by the regard which he had felt to-
wards her father, by his love to his fellow-suffer-
ers, and by the kindness which this woman bad
shown to a friendless child, to come and bless her
dying spirit; and, as death was about to take front
the child the protector which God had hitherto
provided, she aj)pealed to every tender sentiment
in his soul, and prayed him, for the sake of the
bitter and soul-purifying anguish which his unhap-
py (laughter had passed through, not to close his
heart against her innocent, living representattve.
The letter was like the voice of a pitying angel
pleading for fallen humanity ; and tIme letter, had
it even been written by a pen less eloquent and
less heart-inspired than that of Frank Lawfords
daughter, would not have failed of its effect. The
pride of unforgiving and unpitying manhood had
passed away from the soul of poor Jeff kins. The
dead form of his unfortunate daughter had obtained
full pardon for all her living sins, and this, at the
same time, had also produced a great change out-
wardly upon him. His iron -~ray L ir was become
thin and silvery; his stron~ frame was bowed, as
if with the weight of many years; and if some-
what of his natural harshness of countenance re-
mained, it was so intpressed by the baptisni of
sorrow which had passed over him, as to touch
every beholder with pity and synipathy. Ilis
nmode of life also had undergone a great change.
He had withdrawn from all his former associates;
he made speeches no longer at political clubs and
debating societies; he passed no hard judgments
on men or on women: a quiet, subdued, introvert-
ed spirit marked his whole demeanor. No one
had seen him smile from the day on which Imis
daughters body was found. The widowed mother
of his young apprentice, Johnny, was the only
person who entered his house ; she acted as his
housekeeper, but was not his inmate. For weeks
sometimes he never had exchanged a word within
her, and yet he was not sullen. He would sit for
hours looking at the little chair which had been
Fannys when a child, and which stood opposite
to his own; and some few things of hers, mere
trifles, which she had left behim1d hera little silk
handkerchief for the neck, a silver thimble, and a
red-morocco pocket bookwere to him like sainted
relics. Many people remarked, that he never used
now his handsome pocket Bible, with gilt edges
and silver clasps, but instead of it carried with hint
a little shabby one, which had one side of its bind-
ing sewed on with black thread ; but they who
wondered knew not that this had been Fannys
Bible, and had been used by her at school and at
church in her brightest and happiest days, before
she went to Lawford.
Jeffkins bathed the letter which Agnes wrote
to him with tears, and long before he had read it
through, he had resolved upon the journey. He
set his house in order with what speed he might,
placed his young apprentice in the hands of a re--
spectable and trust-worthy man of his own trade,
and requesting his mother to have a general over-
sight of his small possessions, left the door-
key with her, and taking a change of raiment vith
him, set out for Leicester.
Not many evenings after Agnes had written her
letter to Jeffkins, the Reverend Sam Colville
came in. Every one saw in a mortment that some~ 144 THE AUTHOR~S DAUGHTER.
important business had brought him there, and he
lost but little time in announcing it. Some of his
parishioners had brought him word that a poor
woman, the wife of a travelling pedlar, or some-
thing of that kind, lay ill in the caravan in Wood-
bury Lane, and wished him to go and visit her.
Jobody, he said, told hitn who it was, and so
when he was at leisure he xvcnt. He said that
Flora, his favorite pointer, was with him, and
that when he got within reach of the caravan, a
great ugly hull-terrier rushed upon her, and would
have worried her to death. lie would have killed
any nan, he said, who had attacked his dog, and
th~ rofore he fell on the terrier with all his might.
At that moment the door of the caravan opened,
aid out came a felloxv with a villatmous counte-
to flee, who in a moment he saw to be the master
of the dog. What do you keep such brutes as
this ioose for ! exclaimed he call off your
dog, or Ill beat his brains out.
Keep your stic- off roy dog ! said the man,
insolently, descending to where Colville stood.
And who do you think the fellow was?
asked he, from Mr. Lawford and his family. It
was that poaching fellow, Marchmont !
Oh, the wretch ! exclaimed Mrs. Colville.
lie s a villanous-looking fellow, continued
Mr. Sam Colville, and he doubled up his fists,
although he did not raise them, and swore a tre-
niendous oath, that he would see me at the devil
before I should hurt his dog !
Is this the language you use to a clergy-
man? said I. I tell you what, fellow, said ~(,
I 11 have you put on the tread-mill for twelve
months! and with that he began abusing me
satd he hated clergymen worse than the devil;
that we were all hypocrites together, and that he
wonld not give a figs end for a whole bushel of
my prayers !
Dreadful ! said Mrs. Colville.
It is insufferable, said Mr. Lawford.
These are your radicals, your democrats!
satd Mrs. Colville, glancing at Agnes, who took
the greatest l)OsSihle interest in the whole his-
tory; and if such wretches as these are to be at
large, continued she, we shall be no better off
than they are in Ireland !
That fellow would commit murder as soon as
look at you, continued Mr. Sam; and he as
good as threatened it. I told him I would have
him summoned, and his license taken from him,
and give him that xvhich he should remember the
longest (lay lie lived: and with that he hade me
do my worst; called nine a tyrant, and blood-
sucker, and said that all the seed, breed, and
gait erations of Lawfords and (2olvilles were alike;
and actually bade me go ahont my business, for
tlt. t if I stayed much longer, he would not be an-
swerable for the conseqiteuces. I am but flesh
and blood, said he, amid there s a long unsettled
account between us yet ! said he; and with that,
tremhling literally with rage from bead to foot,
ud as white as a corpse, he whistled off his ugly
dog, and turned into his caravan, and shut the
door in my face.
It is a thousand pities but the fellow had been
transported at once, said old Mr. Lawford;
but I think it s a pity, Sam, that you got into
-tny brawl with him.
I II have a summons for him, said Sam.
I conider my life in danger from him, said he;
and if you mibject to drawing me out a sumn?ons,
.1 11 go at once to Mr. Latimer.
I would rather not prosecute the fellow any
more, said Mr. Lawford, and that I candidly
tell you.
Let it drop, Sam, said Tom Lawford, now
speaking for the first time; we all kimow how
warm you are. The fellow is a hardened brute
we all know, and yet he has been living decently
and quietly of lateamid you have no witnesses.
Bless me, said Sam, wartuly; my charac-
ter against a fellow like that, is as good as ten
witnesses, before any bench.
You 11 do no good, continued Tom; you II
only make the fellow tema times your emlemy.
You recollect how it was with that Timothy Ran-
dal: amid really, Sam, it is not creditable to a
clergyman to be always prosecutimig his p~rishion-
ers: now take my advice, and let the matter die
away quietly.
All the family felt that this was good advice,
even Mrs. Colville ; and yet the natural prejudice
which she had against the poor, suggested to her
a new idea with regard to Marchniont. I won-
der, said she, where that money came from
that seemed to give him a start in the world as it
were perhaps he murdered somebody for the
money! It was always a very mysterious thing to
me.
That has nothing to do with the present ques-
tiomin, said Tom.
1 thimik it has, interrupted his father. He
comes out of jail ; his wife and family out of time
workimouse; and then, in a momith or so, he is
seen up and diiwn in the country with a pedlars
caravan. These things do not come out of nothiming;
and, as Sam says, lie is a brutal fellow, likely
enough to commit murder.
I declare to you, remarked Mr. Sam, that
though I am neither physically nor morally want-
ing mu courage, yet that is a fellow who would
make me fear for my life, and I II have him looked
after pretty handily !
Dont tell me, Sam, said Tom, with a per-
suasive smile on his lips, that you really were
afraid of him! You are not the man to let a fel-
low like that frighten you! and, as to what he
said about not valuing your prayers, perhaps, if
your own parishioners spoke out, you would find
the opinion not such a very rare one
Tom, exclaimed his amint, horrified at such
free-speaking, are you really taking the part of
such vagabonds against a gentleman, and a cler-
gyman ? The discussion after this grew still
warmer, and then Ada came forward as thae advo-
cate of peace, of forbearance on the phaa of his
poor wifes former good character, and that proof
of her benevolence and strong affection in adopting
the poor foundling child. The end of it all was,
that Mr. Sam was to take counsel with Mr. Lati-
trier, whose character as a just and wise magis-
trate had always stood so high.
The next day Mr. Latimer dined with the
Lawfordsquite a family dinnerfor Mrs. Col-
ville was determined, as soon as possible, to make
this gentleman feel at home among them. It was
a very pleasant dinner, and the subject which
soon engrossed the whole party was the affair of
Marebmont and Mr. Sam Colvihle. Mr. Latimer
had dissuaded him from taking any violent meas-
ures against the man; and he now told them,
that probably, in consequence of the threats of
Mr. Sam, Marchmont had removed his caravan
omit of Woodhury Lane. This lane ~vas a short
cut to Lawford from time turnpike road, leading to TIlE AUTHOR~ S DAUGHTER. 146
the Hays, and Mr. Latimer had ridden up it in
comin~, there that day. It was his idea, however,
that he was not gone far off, for he had that very
morning seen a green caravan on the little com-
mon at the hack of his own park. It was the first
time that he had seen a caravan there, and he had
~o doubt hut that it was Marchmonts.
Mrs. Colville hoped that Mr. Latimers poultry-
yard would not suffer.
Tom again said something in palliation of the
man s conduct; and Ada related to Mr. Latimer
the history of the child which the poor wife had
adopted.
Mr. Latimers noble countenance beamed with
delight as he listened to this relation, which Ada
nade with enthusiasm, because she saw that he
aisproved both it and her.
I know, said Agnes, venturing a remark for
the first time on the subject, that instances of
noble, disinterested benevolence, of self-sacrifice
and devotion, are not so very rare among the poor.
The charity and kindness of this class one to an-
other are enough to make the rich and the so-called
charitable blush. I believe, if I may so express
it, that were it not for the poor, in many cases the
poor must perish.
I do not approve of any sanctioning of crime,
said Aunt Colville.
Ada, Tom, and Mr. Latimer, all seemed eager
to testify that Agnes did not sanction any crime,
hut merely, asserted the existence of benevolence
and virtue among the poor.
I firmly believe in its existence myself, said
Mr. Latimer, even antong the criminal poor.
This conversation gradually died away, and a
gayer succeeded. The dessert was on the table:
all were gay and unantmous. The setting sun
shone into the side windows of the room, and drew
attention to its beautiful coloring; and from the
laurels of the shrtshbery the mellow tones of rival
throstles came audibly.
How charming a walk would he ! exclaimed
Ada.
Acroes looked to her uncle as if for consent.
Why do you always look at me, child B
asked he, laughing, and then turning to the others,
he said, Agnes would make you believe me to
be a great tyrant! Yes, yes, go out with them
by all means, said he, seeing that his son, and
daughter, and Mr. Latimer waited for her to
accompany them.
The young people passed the window, and Ag-
nes nodded to him as she passed. She is a
sweet creature, said her uncle, as if thinking to
himself, I wonder what I should do without her
now
They walked on, all four together, towards the
settincr sun and in the direction of the dingles at
the bottom of the park. A length Mr. Latimer
gave his arm to Ada, and Tom of course offered
his to Agnes. It was the first time in her whole
life that she had thus walked with him. A con-
sciousness which was almost painful to her, made
this little circumstance more noticeable. The
thought of Fanny Jeffkins and her child, accom-
panied her as they went on through that very din-
gle where she first had seen it, and, following in
the wake of the other couple, they sauntered
slowly up Woodhury Lane. The lane was empty;
scattered straw and rags, and the trampled grass,
showed where the caravan had stood. Had Agnes
not been so much interested in its inmates, or had
not known that her companion was so also, she
would naturally enough have spoken on the sub-
ject; hut she did not. The place, however, seemed
to suggest the thought to her cousin, for he said
You have seen perhaps the influence you have
had upon me, Agnes. I have adopted your benev-
olent opinions and views. They wanted to put
that poor Marchmont again in jail: hut as you
once said the best way of reforming the world
is to make it love goodness. You have reformed
me in this way.~~
Nay; said Agnes, anxious to disclaim any
power, even for good, over her cousin, and sus-
pecting also that the true motives for his forbear-
ance towards the man proceeded from the obliga-
tion he was under to him regarding the child,
there are good and benevolent feelings in your
own heart, naturally.
I am glad you think so, returned he, cher-
ish that idea, Agnes; cherish every idea which
makes you think better of me; and in the mean
time, I will earnestly endeavor really to deserve
your esteem.~~
Tom spoke in that soft persuasive voice which
once before had stolen into Agnes heart. It is
the voice of the tempter, thought she, and trem-
bled.
They were now at a turn of the lane where the
Merley brook crossed it. Tall, leafy willows
sprang up beside it, and cast a shade over the road
and the little bridge with its low-parapeted wall,
on which,in the soft twilight, they found the other
young couple seated.
How sweet it is ! said Ada, motioning to her
cousin to seat herself by them.
She and her companion sat down. They began
to talk about beautiful evenings, and of fine de-
scriptions of them, and the soft lilac-hued summer
twilight, as given by poets and romance writers.
The most beautiful one I know, said Mr.
Latimer addressing Agnes, and one which I
never fail to think of, when I witness the paled
sunset about Lawford, is one which, I am stire, is
familiar to you also ; and he quoted a short and
most eloquent passage, descriptive of the scene and
hour, from Mr. Frank Lawfords work entitled
The Poet.
Agnes heart thrilled to hear her fathers beau-
tiful words spoken with so much feeling, and her
countenance expressed her emotions.
That work, she said, is full of the spirit
of the landscape round Lawford. I never thor-
oughly felt its exquisite and truthful descriptions
until I knew this neighborhood.
Ada was almost as well acquainted with this
hook as Latimer himself, hut she said nothing.
Latimer imagined Agnes to he the only one who
could sympathize with him in his admiration of his
favorite author. Agnes saw from this little cir-
cumstance, that he was ignorant of Adas noble
labors during his absence. Entire, open-hearted
confidence did not yet exist between them. She
wished that she could he the means of bringing it
about: but she had given her promise to Ada to
reveal nothing. She feared too that her cousin
might he wounded by the enthusiasm of his man-
ner to her; and this idea ~vas painfully confirmed
by Ada rising, and coldly proposing that they
should return.
They walked again, as they had done at first,
all four together, and then having repassed the
place where the caravan had stood, and after Lati-
mer had approved of Toms resolotion of not
harshly attempting Marchmonts reformation by 146 THE AUTHOR~S DAUGHTER.
again sending him to jail, even to please the rec-
tor, they separated, and Tom and Agnes found
themselves considerably in the rear of the others.
It seemed to be Tonis wish to delay their return
as long as possible, and yet he was by no means
in a talkative mood; and while he persisted in
quietly sauntering along on the plea of lookin~ for
glow-worms, Agnes fell into a train of thought,
very n tural indeed. She had not yet heard any-
thing from Jeffkins. She had directed him to the
woman in the caravan, in this very lane, and now
the caravan was gone. To inquire after it in the
neighborhood seemed to her a very natoral thing;
would it not be equally so to him? Still she was
qnite anxious on the subject; and how, at several
miles distance, was she herself to see the woman?
Whilst she was thus pondering, a dark fi,~ure was
seen advancing up the lane in the now deepening
twilight, which was rendered still more obscure
from the thickly overhanging trees.
The figure advanced slowly, and then revealed
itself to be that of an elderly nian with a child in
his arms. Some villager, thought Agnes, who,
after his days work was done, had gone forth into
the summer evening with his favorite child, or
grandchild.
Pray, sir, am I in the right road for Merley
Common ? asked the man, suddenly stopping
them.
Agnes heart seemed to stand still, and then
throbbed violently as she at once recognized the
voice of her humble friend, about whom she had,
even at that moment, been anxious. At once two
questions were settled; he had found the woman,
and he had taken the child to his bosom! Thank
God ! Thank God! ejaculated Agnes in spirit,
feeling that the first fruits of her labors of love
were before her.
Who are you? asked Tom abruptly in reply
to the mans question, wondering who should be
there, and yet know so little about the neighbor-
hood.
I am a stranger in these parts, sir, said the
man, and will thank you to put me in the right
way if I am wrong.
Tom Lawford, little imagining his own connex-
ion with the two beings before him, gave the
information which was demanded.
I wonder what he is doing here, and where
he comes from, remarked Tom, looking after him
with that inquisitive feeling which dwellers in
country places, even wealthy ones, have towards
strangers.
Agnes walked on with a rejoicing spirit, clearly
comprehending the cause of Jeffkins being in this
place. No doubt he had learned, from the little
girl, of her frequeiit visits to the dingle where they
had first met, and where he now most likely had
been, in the hope of seeing her. And how were
they to meet? how could sh& get a note, or mes-
sage conveyed to him? The wild thought of
enlisting Mr. Latimer in her cause crossed her
mind, but only came to show its own wildness and
impossibility.
Spite of all these little difficulties, however,
Agnes felt very happy. Thank God! was the
inward voice of her heart. her cousin was
charmed with her cheerfulness; she was now quite
disposed to hunt for glow-worms with him.
It has been a charming walk ! said Tom as
they approached the hall.
It has indeed! returned Agnes.
CHAPTER XV.
The next day there was to be a large party at
the rectory. It was a party invited to meet Mr.
Latimer, and consisted of all their friends and im-
mediate uciobbors. The whole family at the hall,
including Agnes, were invited; and all were to
go, with the exception of the old gentleman, who
for some years had very rarely dined from home.
Agnes thought that even after all the vexation
and mortification of that former occasion, she was
in spirits to put on her beautiful new dress. Ada,
into whose heart the desire had been sliding for
some time, that Agnes should be the wife of her
brother, besought her to put on also the elegant
jet ornaments.
If I only knew from whom they came ! said
Agnes.
Do not be prudish, returned Ada laughing,
they were sent perhaps by some of your London
friends, or by your uncle in Scotland.
Agnes shook her head.
Ada made the wearing of these ornaments a
matter of much consequence. She would regard
it, she said, as a personal favor to herself, and
she would take it unkind if Agnes refused it to
her. The truth was, that Ada was acting by
the wishes of her brother. He had made a little
secret compact with himself, that her wearing or
not wearing these ornaments at Mrs. Sams party,
should be an omen of the success of his love for
her.
Do not make such a trifle as this, any evidence
of my affection for you, prayed Agnes, who,
believing that the ornaments were Toms gift, felt
a scruple in accepting them, still more in wearing
them ; I will show my affection for you in much
more important things.
Ah ! said Ada, with a deep sigh, our hap-
piness is more influenced by trifles than many peo-
ple think; there are many trifles which wring our
very hearts!
There was a deep earnestness in her words, and
an evidence of emotion in her voice, which sur-
prised Agnes; and with these words she left the
room. The truth was, that several little circum-
stancesmere trifleshad troubled her during the
foregoing evening. She could not disguise from
herself that there was no longer the same devotion
of feeling in Mr. Latimers heart toward her, that
there had been formerly. He treated her with
friendly courtesy but nothing more; not had she
found, eagerly as she longed for it, an opportunity
of telling him of that which had occupied her dur-
ing his absence. There was wanting between
them that mutual power of attraction which, with
an influence mysterious and irresistible as life
itself, draws together kindred hearts. Ada felt
that they were separated; she tried to believe that
the difference was in herself; but a mere trifle, a
word, a manner which could not be described, but
must be felt, told her that her influence over him
was weakened: still, the frequency of his visits to
Lawford, the reluctance he seemed to have in leav-
ing them, looked like the devotion of a lover
these were the counterbalaiicimmg trifles. And Ada,
as our every-day life convinces us, was not wrong
whemi she said that our happiness was influenced
by trifles. The merest feather shows us which
way the wind blows.
After breakfast two events occurred which had
reference to Agnes. In the first place, a iiote wasTIlE AUTHORS DAUGHTER.
brought for her to the back-gate. A little girl
brought it, and had given it to a groom, with the
request that it might he delivered immediately.
This note was fortunately conveyed at once to
Agnes in her own ch mber. She recognized the
handwriting instantly to he that of Jeffkins; the
note consisted of but a few words, and was an
urgent request that she would see him in the din-
gie t the bottom of the park, at four oclock that
afternoon. There was no means 01 sending him
any answer back, nor did one seem to be expected;
but here Presented itself a difficulty; how was it
possible that she could he with him at the dingle,
jiearly a mile from the hall, at four oclock, for
perhaps a long, and at all events a painful inter-
view, and yet he hack again in time to dress and
o to the rectory for dinner at six It was impos-
sIl)le! She turned it over all ways in her mind,
and nothing but perplexity caine out of it. In the
midst of this she was summoned down stairs to
see Mrs. Sam, who wished to speak with her.
But, in the first place, we must say that this lady
and Mrs. Colville also, like Ada, were not quite
satisfied ~Vith Mr. Latimer; they thought, and yet
they were very reluctant to acknowledge it, that
his eye ilwelt rather more upon Agnes than upon
her cousin and for this, (people are so very un-
reasonable sometimes!) they blamed Agnes. She
tried to attract his attention, they said, and for
that reason she must not go to dinner to Mrs.
Sams.
But we will now see what that lady has to say
for herself; she and her Aunt Colville were to-
gether in the little library where Agnes was de-
sired to come. Agnes dreaded that some awful
business was in hand she thought that it must
have reference to Jeffkins, and her acquaintance
with the people of the caravan; and she went
down, not knowing how she could clear herself
where so much had to be concealed. But they
were not frowning faces that met her: and, on
the contrary, they looked quite smiling and depre-
cating. Mrs. Sam began by, an apology; she
really did not kuow, she said, how to make her
peace with Agnes, hut she had some way miscal-
culated her guests ; her table would only accom-1
modate a certain number, and she had one lady too
many.
I will stay at home, said Agnes, with such a
cheerful and relieved countenance as instantly
made both ladies surmis~ that she had never wished
to go; and that was strange and un~rateful in her,
they thought.
Mrs. Sam said more than was necessary about
ncr regret at this untoward circumstance, and her
hope that Agnes would come in after dinner for
tea.
A iies and I will have tea together ! said her
good old uncle, renieinbering how amusing Agnes
could he when they two were alone together of an
evenirm g.
Yes, said Agnes, we will have a pleasant
evening toonther.
Mrs. Sam urged that Agnes should come in, if
it were only towards ten oclock.
Perhaps I can go to bed a little earlier, said
the old gentleman, and set her at liberty for the
evening. Your guests will not leave so very
early; Sampson can walk over with her, and per-
haps you may have a little dance; I dare say
Agnes likes dancing.
Yes, said Mrs. Sam, and perhaps yoa
woold not object, Agnes, to play a quadrille or
two if it should be so?
Certainly not, remarked Aunt Colville. I
am sure that she would be quite glad to gratify
you.
Perhaps, said Agnes, thinking that probably
after her interview with Jeffkins she might be in
no humor either for playing or dancing, you may
not need meperhaps you would excuse me alto-
gether.
I think it will amuse you, returned Mrs.
Sam.
I think you will not refuse Mrs. Sam so small
a request, said Mrs. Colville.
She shall do just as she likes, interrupted
the old gentleman; if at the time she incline to
go, she shall go; if not, she shall stay away, and
nobody shall be offended !
The servant came in with lettersimportant let-
tersletters from Edward in India. The wife and
family of his friend Colonel Murray were come
over. He begged his family to show them every
attention. He had sent valuable presents to every
member of his family; and a letter also from Mrs.
Murray informed them that, having through pow-
erful influence been able, without loss of time, to
clear their things through the Customs, the pack-
ages intended for them were now sent off, and she
hoped that they would arrive, perhaps even before
the letters. Nothing could be more charming
than Mrs. Murrays letter, excepting those which
Edward himself sent. His life in India was a
golden one. He had now his Colonelcy; he had
gained great reputation, and wealth also, in a late
warlike expedition ; and again he repeated his
wishthat wish which he seemed to cherish so
fondlythat his beloved sister would come out to
him.
How foolish it is of Edward talking in this
way! said Mrs. Colville; hut then, poor fel-
low, of course he knows nothing of Adas pros-
pects at home.
Edwards letter to his sister breathed the same
wish. Mrs. Murray, he said, would return in six
months, and she had promised to take charge of Ada
if she would come out. Ada read the letter and
smiled and sighed at the same time. Her heart
glowed warmly with affection for this best beloved
brother. She knew how he loved her, She folded
the letter, and clasping it tightly in her folded
hands, pondered upon resolves which lay deep
within her own soul.
Where is Agnes? asked Mrs. Colville, in
an impatient voice, as late in the afternoon she.
wanted her to assist in putting aside the splendid
Eastern gifts, with which, on the opening of Ed-
wards packages, the drawing-room was strewn.
Where is Agnes? inquired Ada also, as
laden with India inuslins and scarfs, some resem-
bling in texture and refulgence of silvery net-
work, the opal-colored dragon-flys wing.
But Agnes was not at home. Some one had
seen her nearly an hour before walking through
the shrubbery towards the park. There was no
doubt, therefore, but that she had taken her daily
walk; and with a little impatience of temper Ada
carried the things into her boudoir.
Agnes was punctual to Jeffkins appointment.
The fallen tree lay a little aside from the road
closely concealed from view by the leafy trees and
underwood, and to it Agnes conducted her humble
friend whom she found awaiting her. She saw at
147 148 THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER.
a glance the havoc which misery and sorrow had
made in him. His thinned and whitened hair;
his wrinkled, and care-worn, and haggard coun-
tenance; his stooping, enfeehied figure; how dif-
ferent to the hold-fronted, and strong-limhed Jeff-
kins of former years! But she was not surprised
at all this; she had seen the beginning of this pull-
ing down of his human stren~th and pride before
she left London; and the sad terminating scene
of the tragedy must necessarily have ploughed too
deeply into heart and frame not to have left inef-
faceahle traces. A faint expression of pleasure, a
smile it could not he called, beamed over his coun-
tenance, like the pale sunshine of a winters day;
and that expression was infinitely touching. It
came for a moment, and then was gone again
and Agnes saw how unused that face was to any
shadow of gladness. He did nut Qifer his hand at
first, nor did he trust his voice to utter a word.
Agnes, however, offered hers with a gentle kind-
ness that called tears to his eyes. He grasped her
hand, and turned aside his face to weep.
You have found them ! said Agnes, thinking
it best at once to face the subject for which they
met. Thank Heaven! you have found them
poor Mrs. Marchmont and the child
May the Lord reward you ! said he. But,
II have suffered a deal! The child is like her.
God in Heaven! I thought it would have killed
me when I saw it first; the same complexion:
the same eyes; the same expression! But ~
and here he clasped his hands tightly together, as
if keeping back some strong feeling, while he
groaned as if from the depths of his soul I have
heard much from Mrs. Marchmont, the truth of
which I must know. I have heard surmises as to
the father of the child. A desire has taken pos-
session of me to see him, to speak to himto him!
the betrayer of my unhappy daughter! Oh there
was no dewy flower more pure than she, until she
left meuntil she met with him! There is a
heavy debt between us. God knows only how it
must be paid!
He pressed his hand upon his brow, walked
backwards and forwards a few paces, and then
continued,
You saw my unhappy daughter, Miss Law-
ford, the night before you left London. God
knows, but most likely you were the last human
being in whom she put any confidence, perhaps the
last to whom she addressed a word. She loved
you, she trusted you when she dared not to trust
me. Ah, I was harsh and unsympathizing to
her; and bitterly have I been punished! She left to
your care the child whom she had abandoned. Tell
me then, said he, fixing his eye sternly and
searchingly upon Agnes, did she name to you
the father of her child? Answer me as you would
God at the last judgment! did she, or did she not?
I conjure you, by your blessed fathers memory, not
to sport with my feelings, hut tell me, yes, orno
She did ! replied Agnes.
Na e him then? said Jeffkins, in a low but
terrible voice.
Agnes hesitated.
I will know the man, resumed Jeffkins,
who dragged that innocent girl to perdition;
who blasted her young life with sin and sorrow! I
will know the man who has made me childless
who has blasted my lifewho has filled my soul
with the passions of a demon. Tell me, what is
his name, that I may hate him: that I m~y pray
God to curse
Silence! for Heavens sake ! interrupted Ag-
nes with a commanding voice. Is it for this
that you have sent for me? In the open sunshine
and the frce air of heaven to curse a sinful fellow-
creature !
Forgive me ! said Jeffkins, with a pale and
agonized countenance; but you know not the
hell of hatred and vengeance that is within me.
God forgive me ! continued he, for I, too, am
a sinner: but I have suffered worse than martyr-
dom in the ruin and perdition of my girl ! Oh
Miss Agnes, said he, without a tear in his eye,
hut with an anguish of heart which made large
drops of sweat stand like beads upon his forehcad,
all that you were to your father, she was to me!
For what was I a proud man? for her! For what
did I toil and hoard up my hard-earned gains? for
her! She it was who gladdened my nights and
my mornings! For her I thought; for her I
prayed; for her I would have died! If I were
harsh to her; if I denied her even a ribbon,
I made myself suffer some privation too! She
knew notno one knew, how I loved her! Arid
she was worthy of my love; she was pure and
loving till that scoundrel met with her, and ruined
her! What wonder then is it, that I should curse
him! My very nature is changed when I think
of him! I believed myself to have been resigned.
I thought that I had said in the midst of my afflic-
tion and suffering, with my entire heart, Thy will
be done! But it was not so! I thirst now for ven-
geance. God only keep my hands from shedding
blood; but let me have vengeance !~ said he, and
ground his teeth together with an expression of
ineffable hatred.
Alas ! said Agnes, mildly but sorrowfully,
how little did I expect this. I thought that the
affliction with which you had been visited, had pu-
rified, at the same time that it had stricken you!
Christ, who endured so much for our sakes, prayed
for his murderers !
I too, returned Jeffkins, could have prayed
for mine. But there are sufferings far worse than
even the most painful and ignominious death, and
these I have borne! Do you deem it a light thing
to have seen my daughter dead by her own hands
a thing of infamy and despite ; to know that she
had gone from sin to judgment; that, humbled,
outraged, and in despair, she had fled from life
which was a burden to her, to death, her only
refuge! Is this a light thing to bear?
No, it is not light, returned Agnes; hut
God lays no burdens upon us, and permits none to
be laid, which we have not strength to bear! You
have been stricken to the dust, but He has not for-
gotten you. He has placed in your hands the
child of that unfortunate mother. Her end was
bitter; but God is merciful, and in its very bitter-
ness I can see her cure. lie who suffered Mary
Magdalene to wash his feet with her tears, is not
less merciful, is not less full of pity and forgive-
ness now than then! Foor Fannys life was lat-
terly one of sin ; hut God knows, if the soul con-
sented. Do not distrust God, dear friend, said
she, laying her hand softly on his arm. I be-
lieve that there are greater sinners, against whom
the world brings no accusation, than your poor
daughtereven as, among her accusers, there
was not found one guiltless enough to cast a stone
at the woman taken in adultery.
These gentle words, like the rod of Moses on
the rock in Iloreb, called forth tears. One after
another, they chased each other down his hollow THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. 149
cheeks, and Agnes continued Cod, as I said,
has not forgotteo you he has work for you yet to
do. He has called you out of your cheerless af-
fliction to a high and a holy dutyto preach to
the poor, to touch the heart of the sinner by words
of love to pray by the dying; to be a father to a
child more forlorn than an orphan Is it then for
von to cherish hatred and thoughts of vengeance
In your soul? lo meditate upon that which may
lead to deeds of blood? to take upon yourself the
authority of God, who says that vengeance is
miue Oh no! yours is a wor of love: you are
to be a disciple of Christ, and to labor in his spirit.
ud depend upon it that the betrayer of your
daughter will be visited by a pang more severe
than even that of a dagger. Remorse and repent-
ance will visit him. But leave all punishment to
God. He has called you to a brighter and a better
mission that of love and forgiveness.
Jeffkins seated himself on the tree, and bowing
his face to his knees wept bitterly.
You have saved my soul ! at length he said,
raising his head, whilst a mild expression beamed
upon bis countenance. I will do thy will, oh
Lord
You will pray, said Agnes, that your sins
be forgiven to you, even ns you forgive those who
sin against you.
So help me God, I will ! returned Jeffkins.
You will forgive him who has been worse
even than a murderer to you ! said Agnes.
So help me God ! said he, raisitig his eyes
nd his hatids to heaven ; and more, even, if
that may be !
Behold him, then ! said she, sinking down
upon the tree beside him, and laying her hand on
his arm.
Tom Lawford on horseback, as on the former
occasion, rode up the dingle, humniing a low air
to himself, and beating time to it with his riding
whip.
JeTkins seemed at once as if deprived of voli-
tion. A pallor stole over his countenance; his
eyes ied starting from their sockets; and like
a statue, his convulsive breathing alone telling
that life as within him, he sat looking at the
yonn0 man between the tree-branches as he
passed.
When he was out of sight, a sort of shudder
p~ssed over his frame; and, clasping his hands
before his face, he sat for sortie moments in silent,
but agonizing communion with his own soul and
God.
May the Almighty Father bless you, and
strengthen you for If is good work atid to your own
peace ! said Agnes, witla deep emotion, and
clasped hands, as she stood before him.
Jeff kins looked her in the face with an ex-
preso on of pity It is then a Lawford, as I was
toldone who could have had no thought or will
~n .a~ke her his wife ; and at your prayer, and for
your sake, I have forgivan him !
Not for my sake, replied Agnes; but for
the sake of God, who is the Father of us all, atid
of Jesus Christ, who is our Saviour, our Friend,
and our Teacher iii all things
I have forgiven him, again said Jeff kins.
Hand of mine shall never be raised to injure
hi1 , nor shall my tongue curse him. But, said
he, solemnly addressing Agnes, for the sake of
virtue, for the sake of what xvomanhond suffered
in the person of my poor girlher downfall and
her deathlisten not to him! Let him not win
your heart as he has won others! May blessed
angels watch over you! and, if the prayers of a
poor sinner like me may prevent a mischief or
a sorrow, they shall be yours night and morn-
ing!
He turned him about to go; his countenance
was mild, but sorrowful; he stood more erect, and
lie trod with a firmer step. He had listened to the
voice of God, who had given him a holy vocation,
and his whole being was strengthened and en-
nobled by it.
Again he turned back, and blessed Agnes: she
gave him her blessing in return. They parted,
and each slowly took their different ways.
CHAPTER xvi.
The dinner-bell had rung both at the ball and
the rectory, where all the guests were assembled,
before Agnes reached home. There was no one
to dine there that day, but Agnes and her uncle;
and the old gentleman was very angry that she
had not returned in time to sit down with him.
He had taken his soup, and was busy over his
boiled capon when she entered. She never had
seen him so angry with her before ; and, wha
was worse, she could not give any satisfactory
account of that which had detained her so long.
She had been no farther than the dingle at the
bottom of the park, and yet she bad been away
quite three hours. It was a very thoughtless
thing of her, he said, to go sauntering about by
herself in lonesome places in that wayhow could
she tell but that she might meet with that fellow
Marebmont, and even worse than he? It was
very improper of her! He used to think, he said,
that Mrs. Colville complained of her outr6 notions
withotit cause; but he should not think so any
longer now!
Through more than half the dinner he scolded
her, and through the remainder of it he said
nothing at all; and Agiies, who was more occu-
pied in mind and more agitated in feeling by her
interview with Jeffkins than even by her uncles
displeasure, allowed him to maintain his silence
unbroken.
After his customary after-dinner nap, Agnes
went in as usual, just before his hour for tea. She
was resolved that the good old man should now
have, as far as she was concerned, one of those
quietly amusing evenings of which he was so fond
He was fortunately one of those persons who can
bear to hear the same story ten times over; so,
rest)lving to struggle against her own abstraction
of mind, and determining not to go to Mrs. Sams
that night, she thought over her best stories and
her drollest anecdotes, intending to introduce them
very cunningly, and to while away his ill-humor
by compelling him to laugh. With the tea, how-
ever, thtere was brought in a note from Mrs. Sam
which was to beg that Agnes would come, with-
out fail, and to desire her to bring such and such
quadiilles with her, as they all knew she excelled
in playing. 1\Iy dear, and my dearest Ag-
nes, occurred again and again in the note; but
for all that she did not feel flattered into any spirit
of compliance.
What is it? asked the old gentleman, pet-
tishly. Is it from Mrs. Sam?
Mrs. Colville left word, said the footman,
addressing his master, wlaen she weiit, that Mis~
Agnes must go as soon as possible, and Sampson
is now waiting to go back with her.
Sampson ~as Mrs. Colvilles own servant, and 150 THE AUTHORS DAUGHTER.
had accompanied his mistress to the rectory; he
had now brought the note, and waited to attend
the young lady hack.
I have no wish to go, said she, address-
ing her uncle I very much prefer staying with
you.
It s no use stopping with me, returned
the old gentleman; and I insist upon your
going
Agnes begged at all events to stay with him till
after tea ; but he was out of humor, and resolute.
lie insisted upon her 0oing, cven though it were
only to play for other peoples dancing; he could
see nothing unreasonable in it, he said; and, to
humor even his ill-humor, and quite against her
own inclination, Agnes went out to prepare her
.oilette.
Sampson respectfully hinted to her, in passing
him in the hall, that he was ordered to return in-
stantly, and not to forget the music.
It was only to play for other peoples dancing
that she was sent for, and therefore it seemed to
her needless to array herself in her new attire
so, making her ordinarily best dress look its
best, and with no other ornament than a bou-
quet of geranium in her bosom, she set off to the
rectory.
It was a lovely night; here and there a bird
twittered in the trees, as they passed; the grass-
hoppers chirped; and the deer, which lay for the
night under a broad oak near the road, started up
as they passed, and trotted away a few paces.
The very soul of repose lay over everything; but
Agnes mind was not in a state to receive its influ-
ence. She could not cease thinking of Jeff kins
and his passion of hatred and revenge, and then,
like Balaam, blessing the man whom he came to
curse.
Light streamed from the rectory windows; and
the gay, lau~hing voices of young people, who had
walked out of the heated rooms into the lovely
flower-scented garden that snrronnded the house,
caine like sounds from a totally different world to
that in which Agnes mind was thrown. She was
now in the garden itself. Lightly-attired forms,
each paired with a dark attendant, walked slowly
along, laughing aloud, or listening to the low dis-
course of the apparently enamored attendant.
A~ncs heard that Mrs. Acton was at this party,
and ~ r. Latimer also, as the lion of the night.
Aim she fancied that she saw in the distance, with
Ada leaning on his arm. Happy Ada! sighed
she, as she often had done before.
But Ada was not in the garden, whatever Lati-
mer might be. Ada came up stairs the moment
she heard that Agnes was arrived, impatient to see
her, and, as she said, to arrange her toilette before
~he went down stairs.
But I am not dressed. said A5ncs.
da seemed annoyed At all events you have
your new ornaments on, remarked she.
No, I have not, returned Agnes. I have
only come as a piece of mechanism, to play while
you dance. I am not at all in a company mood
to-night, dear Ada, said she, trying to keep
back some tears, which, she could hardly tell
wb~, seemed as if they would come into her
eyes.
Neither am I, said Ada, revealing all at
once, spite of her beauty, that some sad and
troubling thought was in her heart, and I shall
be thankful when this night is over! Bnt, how-
~ver, said she, assuming a sudden gaiety,
neither you nor I must go into the room looking
doleful. And I wish you had put on your orna-
ments! I am quite angry that you have not done
so !
They entered the drawing-room, where there
were evidently signs of something beyond an im-
promptu dance. The moment her Aunt Colville
saw her, she came to her also across trie room, her
countenance giving evidence of rigorous dis-
pleasure. What in the world has possessed you
to come dressed in this manner? It is quite a dis-
respect to us all? And what could make you stop
out so long this afternoon ?you ought to have
been back long before it was time for us to go. It
was very thoughtless of you ; and now to come
dressed that figure !
Never mind my dress, dear aunt, said Ag-
nes, assuming a cheerful air: I am only going
to p lay.
Her cousin also whispered to her, with dissatis-
faction in his countenance, that she should have
put on her new dress. And Ada says, said he.
as if he knew nothing of the matter, that you
have some handsonie new ornamentswhy did
you not wear them? We all wanted you to look
your very best to-night !
Agnes made no reply; she thought of the last
time she had seen him, not many hours before,
when she had turned alumost the hand of a mur-
derer aside from him. How little can one human
being understand the heart of anothcr! Torn
thought that Agnes was out of humor; and,
really out of humor himself, he turned hastily
from her to flirt with the silliest girl in the.
room.
That is Mr. Frank Lawfords daughter,
who has sat down to the piano, said George
Bridport to the gentleman who stood next to
him.
The gentleman looked at her through his eye-
~lass She is a devilish pretty figure, said lie,
and has beautiful eyes! Pon my word, I think
she is a pretty girl !
But devilish ill-dressed for a party like this,
said George Bnidport, loud enough for hcr to hear
him.
At this moment, Mrs. Acton, who was only just
then aware of her being in the rooi , seated her-
self by her, and talked to her kindly and cheer-
fully.
Mrs. Sam, in the mean time, had duly informed
the company that Miss Agnes Lawford was so
gniod as to o er to play a few quadrilles. The
young people were delightedthey came flocking
in from the arden, bringing a cool, fresh air witl~
them. All was hustle and animation, hews ann
smiles, of beseeching and assentine partners ; and
now the quadrille was formed, and Agnes began
to play. She played beautifolly, people said, re-
marking that it was dehightfnl to dance to music
like this ; they thought she must he a great musical
gemmius. Mr. Latimer danced with Ada. They,
too, had only come in as the quadrille was formed,
and Agnes had not exchanged a word with him.
When the first set was ended, he came to her,
and asked her to dance the second with him. Mrs.
Acton, at that very moment, was insisting upon
taking Agnes place at the piano. The young
men would be in despair, if you were to set all thu
evening, said she, laughing. My brother, I am
sure, would scold me, if I wore to allow you to
play the next quadrille. These words were on
her lips, as lie in person made his request. TIlE AUTHORS DAUGHTER. 151
Many people thronged about her to thank her
for her playing. They had never danced to better
music before. She 1 ust be very fond of music,
& c. & c.
But my dress, said Agnes, appealing to Mrs.
Acton. I only came to play, really.
Your dress is charmingmost becoming to
you,~ whispered she to Agnes ; and then, turning
to the admirers of Agnes music, she said, that
they must he contented with something less per-
fect this time, for Miss Agnes was going to dance.
Agnes thought of her aunt, and of Mrs. Sam,
and begged again to decline; and Latimer stood
and looked at her with a calm and yet admiring
countenance, which more than anything else dis-
concerted her.
I cannot think of your sitting down to the
piano, Mrs. Aeton, said Mrs. Sam coming up.
Indeed I cannot! Agnes was so good as to
offer; it is very good-natured of her: yes, she
does play heautifully, said she to some admirer
of Agnes musical power. I am not sure,
though, that Agnes dances, Mr. Latimer. I be-
lieve you do not, Agnes. Of course Agnes
ou,~ht to have said no; but she did not, and
to prevent any other answer Mrs. Sam went
on: I wish now, as the young people seem to
enjoy dancing so much, that I had a musician for
the night; but I was uncertain whether a dance
would be liked. Our rooms are not large, said
h~ glancing from one end of her handsome draw-
to room to the other.
I pray you to intercede for me, said Mr.
I atimer, taking hold of Agnes hand, and address-
1 I~ Mrs. Sam; she declines dancing. If she
will not he my partner I shall sit down myself,
said he laughing.
We most not let you sit, said Mrs. Sam,
assuming at once a gay humor: you do A nes
great honor; and of course she will not decline;
but had no idea that she danced, said she, look-
ing very significantly at her.
Mr. Latimer smiled and bowed, and leading
Y ~nes away triumphantly, placed her so that
Young Bridport, who was about to dance with
da, was her vis-a-vis. Agnes heart beat, and
she looked with an expression of ineffable love on
er cousin, resolving, even though he were her
Part ncr, to absorb as little of his attention as she
couldbut there was something sad and inexpli-
tote in Adas eyes. The miext moment, a proud
nod cold expression came over her features. She
s off nded with me, thought Agnes; I am wound-
~CT h~r by dancing with Mr. Latimer. I am per-
sos exeitin~ that most painful of all passions,
1 alonsy! goes thoueht how already she had
o~eu the means, all innocently as it was, of wound-
moo- her cousins pride and ambition: the album-
ti~e tolume, and the note came to her mind; and
then he noble and inEenuous confession; the
noveiling of her love and her hopes. How inex-
pressibly dear was Ada to her, as she thought
~ pidly on these things! She saw her beautiful
figure in its elegant dress floating along; she took,
in passing, the lovely hand, and endeavored by a
gentle pressure to convey a feeling of the love and
tenderness that was in her heart. But Ada was
now laughing gaily with her partner, and looking
again the happiest, as well as the loveliest in the
room.
It is all my own fancy ! thought Agnes.
Mr. Latimers dancing with me, affects not
Ada; she knows that he does so, as no doubt is
the fact, because I am the poorest and the worst-
dressed girl in the room
She resolved to be as gay as the rest. Young
Bridport thought that the eyes of his vis-a-vis
were even more beautiful than he had at first
imagined, and that really she looked such a
thorough-bred gentlewoman, that he could no
longer think 11cr ill-dressed.
Nothing but the most genera] conversation
passed between Mr. Latimer and herself; but
when that quadrille was ended she determined to
dance no more that night.
Many young men, when it was finished, offered
themselves as her partners, but she resolutely sat
down to the instrument to play. From a cause
which was, many people believed, easy of expla-
nation, the next quadrille was not nearly so well
played as the former one. Mr. Latimer took his
place beside her, and Ada, who had declined
dancing, sat on the other side of the room. Ad~
seemed neither ehac,rined nor neglected: many
admirers, the least enamored of whom by no
umeans was the handsome George Bridport, were
around her; but for all that, Agnes never lost the
thought of her.
I wish I could transport you to the vacant
chair beside Ada ! thought Agnes, as Mr. Lati-
mers hand turned over each succeeding page of
her music-hook.
Mrs. Colville was winning one rubber after
another at whist, so that she saw not what was
going forward: lint Mrs. Sam was busily looking
after the dancing, and she noticed this malapropos
adjustment of persons with great dissatisfaction.
You have not played this last quadrille well,
said Mrs. Sam, who had determined some time
before that there should be no more dancing; but
I dare say, dear, you are anxious to get back to
papa. She is so attentive to papa, said she,
turning to Mr. Latimer, and he is so poorly to-
day, it was almost cruel to bring her out.
I will now go quietly home, said Agnes,
aside to Mrs. Sam. I will umake no adiens.
But I know not how we can spare any one to
go home with you, said Mrs. Sam, who knew
that supper would soon be announced.
My servant shall walk with her, said Mr.
Latimer, who, unexpectedly to both parties, had
heard what passed.
Whether Mr. Latimer, however, could not find
his servant, or whether he wished for the fresh air,
and the cool quiet evening walk, or xvhatever
might be his motive, he surprised Agnes, by join-
in~ her outside the door, and accosting her with
Permit me to be your attendant, Miss Agnes,
instead of my servant.
I cannot indeed, Mr. Latimer, said Agnes
stopping, the distance is so short, arid I quite
prefer going alone ; the air is fresh and pleasant
after the hot drawing-mom, and there is no danger
for nine!
lIe took her hand, and drew it vithin his arm
with the air of one who will have Ins own way;
and yet there was a something in his manner,
tender at once and deferential, that troubled her.
She recalled the conclusion of her former argu-
ments, that lie noticed her, and paid attentions to
her, because his benevolence made her very deli-
ciences interesting to him ; but on this occasion there
surely was something more. Ah, poor Agnes,
with a sentiment which she would not have dared
to confess to herself, she felt her hand within his
and resting upon his arm, amid then she was walk- 152 THE AUTHORS S DAUGHTER.
ing step for step by his side. They walked both
slowly and sileotly. A tumult of strange emotion
was in her heart; a short spiritual combat ensued,
and she won or seemed to win, a victory over her-
self.
My cousin Ada is beautiful ! said she, speak-
ing in the strength of her s elf-vanquishment.
Very beautiful, said Mr. Latimer emphati-
cally.
She is a noble creature ! returned Agnes.
I think very few persons do her justice; I ques-
lien if you do, for she is not a merely beauti-
ful girl, but she has hiqh and estimable qualities.
I think her one of the most interesting characters I
know. I cannot see any fault in her, and I am
convinced that she must he greatly improved since
you left. Agnes longed to tell the confession she
had made, but Adas strict prohibition forbade it.
I think very highly of her powers, said Mr.
Latimer, in a voice which to Agnes seemed cool
and measured, and I know no one more capable
of developin, herself nobly than Ada. There was
a time, continued he, after a pause, when I
tried to use my influence with her; but Ada is
one of those who must find the right way herself,
and, sooner or later, she will find it, no doubt.
She has found it already, said Agnes,
warmly: she is as noble as she is beautiful. I
wish I could make you think as highly of her as I
do myself, added she, feeling almost desperate in
her cousins cause.
We are nearly at the end of our xvalk, said
Mr. Latimer, abruptly, and I must not forget my
sisters com mission to me. She came out to bid
you good-by, but I prorrmised to do it ~r her, and
to beg you to make one o~ a pic-nic party to Brad-
gate Parkmerely her own family, your uncles,
Mr. and Mrs. Sam, and myself, on Tuesday
week.
I should like it extremely, said Agnes, if
I can goif my uncle can spare me.
You must go, and he must spare you,
returned Mr. Latimer; for, to tell you the
truth, said he, laughing, the party is made for
you and me. You, as the entire stranger; I, as
the last arrival ; and the party without either of us,
would be like Hamlet with the part of Hamlet left
out.
Agnes hoped to herself that neither he nor his
sister would s. y this to any of her uncles family,
and this brought them to the hall.
I wish Mr. Latimer would be more attentive
to Ada, thought she, as she entered her chamber
for the night; however, the very next time I go
out, I will dress ~,yself in my very best, and make
the very most of myself, and owe nothing to com-
passiomi !
Yes, so she said; but through the sleepluss
night that followed, she took a strict and close
survey of the true connexion which existed rela-
tively between Mr. Latimer, her cousin, and her-
self; and there was something very much more
momentous than this or that dress, or this or that
casualty, which was the mainspring of Mr. Lati-
mers behavior. Then, as regarded herself, how
different was her feeling now towards him to what
it had been on that first evening of their meeting
when she so unwittingly revealed to him all her
domestic affections and sorrows Yes, between
then and now a very different feeling had sprung
up; and very different too was it now, to what it
was only comparatively a few hours ago! It was
love which she was admitting into her heart
And this love, which was so flattering, so seduc-
tive, was treachery to her cousinto her who had
confided so much to her keepingwho had suffered
already so nmuch from her. It appeared to her at
that moment almost criminal ; and, if she stole
away Latimers heart, however rich the prize, it
could only be at the purchase of Adas happiness.
Better teii times that I should suffer than do this
said she. The true path for her to take, however.
seemed hidden from her. She prayed for aid, and
all seemed darkness and uncertainty around her.
She knew not that which was right for her to do.
For one moment it appeared better that she should
leave Lawford. In a great measure, if not al-
together, her mission as regarded poor Fanny
Jeff kins child was fulfilled, if not to the letter.
yet fully as to the spirit; and now she had duties
to perform to others, to herself, to her cousin, to
her uncle, who had been as a father to her! 11cr
duty to these was aliketo promote the well-being
and happiness of each: but then, would her leav-
ing Lawford do this? She knew not. However.
she had a true friend and counsellor in her mother.
and to her she determined to write. She had
related to her all that had hitherto occurred, and
now again she would be faithfully candid, and her
mothers advice should be her guide. In the
mean time, she resolved that nothing should induce
her to neglect the most rigid fulfilment of her
duty, nor would she give any ground for reproach.
Her place was with her uncle, and him alone.
She determined to avoid Mr. Latimers society
and eveim his sisters, and not to give them aux
reason to suspect the treacherous inclinations o~
her own heart.
Such were the resolves which, in the stillness
of the night, Agnes made she prayed earnestly
for time assistance of Heaven to strengthen her in
this and all other trials; and, with a stronger and
more cheerful mind, she arese the next morning.
ARTIFICIAL QUARTZAt the Paris Academy New ANTI-sameTmee IETALs.Gebgaen? men-
of Sciences 25 August, a communication was tions the discovery of a new mixture ef metals,
received from M. Tihelmen, mining engineer, and called anti-friction, as a smmhstitute for the use of
joint director of the royal manufactory of S~vres, brass in the various uses to which that metal ha
announcing that he had succeeded in making an been hitherto applied in the manufacture of Ieee-
artificial quartz, equal in every respect to the mm. tu- motive and other engines. From the statement of
ral crystal. This process is of great simplicity. Messrs. Alicard, Buddiconibe and Co., who have
It consists in the evaporation in damp air of sihicie umade the locomotives for the Ronen and Paris and
ether. The crystal thims obtained is very hard and other railroads, it appears that this metal, although
transparent, and scratches glass. This discovery very much lower in price than brass, and atended
will give courage to those chemists who are (If with aim economy of 75 per cent. in the use of oil
opinion that even the diamond may be artificially during the working, is of a duration so far beyond
obtained. that of brass as to be almost incredible.

Restricted to authorized users at Cornell University and the University of Michigan. These materials may not be redistributed.

The Living age ... / Volume 7, Issue 76Littell's living ageEvery Saturday; a journal of choice readingEclectic magazineThe Living age co. inc. etc.New York etc.October 26, 18450007076The Living age ... / Volume 7, Issue 76153-200

LITTELLS LIVING AGE.No. 76.25 OCTOBER, 1845.
CONTENTS.
CorrespondenceNew ArrangementsNew Books
1. Life of Mr. Blanco White Quarterly Review,
2. Domestic Life of Frederick III. of Prussia, . Christian Observer
3. Science and Religion Athencsum
4. Punch in Chancery Punch
5. New Facts respecting Mary Queen of Scots, Chambers Journal,
6. The Authors Daughterchaps 17, 18, 19, 20, Mary Howilt,
7. James Montgomery, . Boston Atlas,
POETRY.Our Little Church; The Baptism, 154The Prairie Shadow,
Home in Summer, 200.
CORRESPONDENCE
WE have great pleasure in making known to our
readers that Messrs. WAITE, PEIRcE & Co. have
become the Publishers of the Living Age. By the
arrangements we have made with this vigorous
house, the very great increase of the work in cir-
culation, and consequent lnfluence, may be confi-
dently anticipated. Our responsibility to the pub-
lic is greatly increased, but the accession of strength,
which has come to the work, will make our labors
cheerful and hopeful. We thank God and take
courage. ~
Messrs. Waite, Peirce & Co. will make it an
important part of their business to supply yearly
subscribers with punctuality. And there is much
in the direct intercourse between the Readers and
the Editor and Publishers which is very gratify-
ing.
THE Authors Daughter will be immediately
issued in a separate form by Waite, Peirce & Co.
THERE are several phrases in the article on Mr.
Blanco White, so coarse in the language used by
the reviewer towards religious opinions differing
from his own, that we should probably have still
longer hesitated to publish it, had it not been re-
commended to us by a gentleman holding tile opin-
ions thus attacked. With this exception, we are
glad to publish the article, as the subject is of
great interest everywhere, and especially to many
persons in this neighborhood who were well ac-
quainted with Mr. White.
The Encyclopedia of Domestic Economy has been
completed by Messrs. Harper. This work is full
of practical matters, and is worthy of a place in
every family.
No. 26 of Wiley and Putnams Library, is
Selections from Taylor, Barrow, South, Ful-
ler, & c., by Basil Montague. These specimens
LXXVI. LIVING AGE. VOL. VII. 10
will make thousands desirous of a better acquaint-
ance with great minds. No 27, The Twins and
Heart 4y Martin Farquhar Tupper. Of this we do
not know anything; but the sound judgment which
is evinced in the whole series, is our sufficient
warrant for recommending each of the Volumes.
PAINE & BuRGEss have sent us the fifth number
of the series of Italian Prose, which Mr. Lester
has translated from his consular residence at Genoa.
It is The Autobiography of Alfieri, arid will probably
be still more successful than the volumes which
preceded it.
THE American Review for October -looks very
well. We must pay more attention to this and
the rival Democratic Review than we have yet
done.
Up ham on the Principles of the Interior or Hidden
LWe, was strongly recommended to us by a Con-
gregational clergyman, as an eminently practical.
work: he did not agree in all the doctrines taught
in it, but thought the influence of what he supposed
incorrect, was as nothing compared with the good
to be derived from the eminently devout spirit which
breathed through the whole of it. We do not know
whether we may not like the work the better for th&
faults which to our friends eye were apparent, but
we have so much confidence in his praise, that we
give it without waiting till we are able to add our
own.
A lot of books for young people has been sent to
us by the same publishers, Waite, Peirce & Co.
The titles and handsome bindings are all that we
could copy before they were carried away: Mary
Wilson; The Rosctte; Tr als of the Heart; The
Parsona~, e; Shawmut, (this is all about Boston.
The frontispiece is a picture of an Indian, probably
the mayor at that time;) The Royal Oak; Pastors~
Stories; Home made Happy. Also, The Strange
PAGE.
153
155
171
180
181
182
184
200
199Forest-154
in Lowell, by J. G. Whittier: (we must now
further delay our visit to Lowell till we read
this.)
A Personal Narrative of Residence as a Mission-
ary in Ceylon and Southern Ilindoostan, by James
Read Eckard,we think we shall like very much.
This, and a little book called Kindness to Animals,
have been sent to us by the American Sunday
School Union.
ONE of the most attractive and valuable books
which we have lately seen, has been published by
Messrs. Sorin & Ball, Philadelphia: Sketches of
Residence and Travels in Brazil; embracing histori-
cal and geographical notices of the Empire and its
several provinces. By Daniel P. Kidder. In two
volumes, with many illustrations. Brazil is becom-
ing a great nation, and it is necessary for every
man, who wishes to be well informed, to make him-
self acquainted with its present and probable con-
dition. It has formed one of the most important
subjects of debate in the British Parliament, and
the necessity of making a commercial treaty with
that empire has driven, or probably will drive,
Great Britain from some favorite points of her
policy in relation to slaveryor will cause her to
say to Brazil, as she did t~ China in the spirit of the
French RevolutionLet us either trade or fight:
Soyons Freres on je t hssomme. This book is by
an American missionaryand has attracted great
~attention in England. Next week we shall have an
utrticle from the Spectator, and shall follow it with
t~others, considering both the subject and the book
to be worthy of much room. One of the faults
which have been found with the writer, is some-
\what an unusual complaint against a traveller ;
it is that he has not given so many of his personal
opinions as was desirable,he being eminently
qualified, from his intimate knowledge and evident
;abiity, to guide the opinions of his readers.
OUR LITTLE CHURCH.
FROM THE GERMAN OF HRUMACHEa.
.0, ONLY see how sweetly there
Our little church is gleaming!
The golden evening sunshine fair
On tower and roof is streaming.
~How soft and tranquil all around!
Where shall its like on earth be found?
Through the green foliage white and clear
It peeps out all so gaily
Round on our little villa~e here
And down through all the valley.
Well pleased it is, as one may see,
With its own grace and purity.
Not always does it fare so well,
When tempests rage and riot
Yet even then the little bell
Speaks out: Twill soon be quiet!
OUR LITTLE CHURCHTHE BAPTISM.
Though clouds look black, and pour down rain,
The sunshine, brighter, comes again.~~
And when the oigan shines and sounds,
With silver pipes all glistening,
How every heart, then, thrills and bounds,
And earth and heaven seem listening.
Such feelings in each hosom swell!
But what he feels no one can tell.
0, see in evenings golden fire
Its little windows gleaming!
Bright as a bride in gay attire
With flowers and jewels beaming.
Aye, look now! how it gleams and glows,
Fair as an apricot or rose
Within our little church shows quite
Believe mequite as neatly;
The little benches, blue and white,
All empty, look so sweetly
On Sunday none is empty found
There s no such church the wide world round!
See where against the pillared wall
The pulpit high is huilded,
Well carved and planned by master-hand,
All polished bright and gilded.
Then comes the parson undismayed,
They wonder he is not afraid.
But he stands up a hero, there,
And loads them on to Heaven
Through all this world of sin and care
The flock his God has given:
Soft falls his word as dew comes down
On a dry meadow parched and brown.
But see the sun already sinks,
And all the vale is darkling,
Only our little spire still blinks
With days last golden sparkling.
How still and sacred all around!
Where shall a church like ours be found?
THE BAPTISM.
SHE stood up in the meekness of a heart
Resting on God, and held her fair young child
Upon her bosom, with its gentle eyes
Folded in sleep, as if its soul were gone
To whisper the baptismal vow in heaven.
The prayer went up devoutly, and the lips
Of the good man glowed fervently with faith,
That it would be, even as he had prayed,
And the sweet child be gathered to the fold
Of Jesus. As the holy words went on,
Her lips moved silently, and tears, fast tears,
Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon
The forehead of her beautiful child lay soft
With the baptismal water. Then I thought
That to the eye of God that mothers tears
Would be a deeper covenant, which sin
And the temptations of the world, and death,
Would leave unbroken, and that she would know,
In the clear light of heaven, how very strong
The prayer which pressed them from her heart
had been,
In leading its young spirit up to God.
Boston Recorder. LIFE OF MR. BLANCO WHITE. 155
From the Quarterly Review.
The Life of the Rev. Joseph Blanco White, written
by himself; with portions of his Correspondence.
Edited by JOHN HAMILTON THOM. In 3 vols.
8vo. London, 1845.
Tans is a book which rivets the attention, and
makes the heart bleed. We state so much, with-
out taking into account the additional power and
interest which it most acquire in the minds of
many who still live, from personal associations
with its author and subject. It has, indeed, with
reward to himself, in its substance though not in
its arrangement, an almost dramatic character; so
clearly and strongly is the living, thinking, acting
man projected from the face of the records which
he has left. The references to others, accordingly,
with which the book abounds, are, by comparison,
thrown into the shade; and yet our readers may
apprehend that even these are sufficiently signifi-
cant, when we add, that among ihe many persons
to whom Mr. Blanco White alludes as beloved
and intimate friends, perhaps none are more prom-
inently named than Mr. Newman, arid, even to a
much later period, Archbishop Whately.
But, further, the interest of the work is not
merely concentrated upon the writer: it is also
very much compressed within the limits of his men-
tal history; and it embraces his external fortunes,
chiefly as they were dependent upon that. His
literary tastes and his political labors might justly
deserve some detailed notice; but all the space
that we can spare must be devoted to matters of
deeper import. For his spirit was a battle-field,
upon which, with fluctuating fortune and a srngo-
lar intensity, the powers of belief and skepticism
waged, from first to last, their unceasing war;
and within the compass of his experience are pre-
sented to our view most of the great moral and
spiritlial problems that attach to the condition of
our race.
A rapid sketch of his history will enable our
readers to judge of the delicacy and difficulty of
the task we undertake. He was born in 1775, at
Seville. A Spaniard, of Irish extraction by the
fathers side, he was intended in early years, though
he was of gentle blood, for the calling of a mer-
chant. His apprenticeship commenced at the age
of eight.i But he hated the counting-house and
loved his books ;~~2 and naturally enough, we pre-
sume, in his position, learning and the church
were to him inseparable ideas.3 It is material to
apprehend clearly this the first change in the direc-
tion of his course: and we remark, that in relating
it in 1830, he says, his mind hit instinctively
upon the only expedient that could release him
from his mercantile bondage.4 Divines declared
that he had a true call to the ecclesiastical career.
lie readily advanced in the theoretical part of his
education, but he regarded the devotional practices
with horror.a At fourteen, he was sent to study
philosophy with the Dominicans of the college of
Seville, whose lectures were founded on Aristotle
and Thomas Aquinas. Here occurred his second
act of mental rebellion. The system of instruc-
tion was odious to him: and a great love of
knowledge,6 and an equally great hatred of estab-
lished errors, were suddenly developed in his
mind. His instructors denied the possibility of
a vacuum; and attributed the ascent of liquids by
suction to the horror of nature at being wounded
1 Life, I., p. 6. 2 Dohlados Letters, p. 51. 1 Ibid.
4Life, I., p. 8. 1 Ibid., p. 10. 6 Ibid., p. 14.
and torn.1 The works of the Benedictine Fey-
joo, which had come into his hands, imparted to
him the true view of these physical questions.
Being rebuked by his teacher, for inattention, in
the lecture-room and before the whole class, he
started up and denounced the falsity of the doc-
trine which was inculcated there. At this time
he began to question, except upon matter of reli-
gion, all the settled notions of his relatives; and
his mother, to whom he gives credit for great
penetration, thanked Heaven that Spain was his
ilative country; else he would soon quit the pale
of the church.2
He was, however, transferred to the university
of Seville, where he received more congenial
instruction from such members of the Society of
the Jesuits as lingered there after the suppression
of the order. With his friends he organized a
private society for the cultivation of poetry and
literature. But he also attached himself to the
oratory of St. Philip Neri,~ at which the spiritual
exercises of St. Ignatius were practised. He has
supplied us with a very remarkable, and appa-
rently an impartial, description of them.4 They
had a sufficient effect upon him to prevent his
abandoning the intention to receive holy orders;
yet he went through them with a consciousness,
never subdued, of strong dislike.5 The fear of
giving pain to his mother, whose domestic influ-
ence was supreme, was likewise a principal sup-
pI)rt to that intention. She was powerfully sec-
onded by her confessor, Arjona, then a devout
person, but of whom it is afterwards recorded that
he became perhaps an infidel, and certainly a lib-
ertine.6 Although young Blanco Whites father
secretly reminded him that he was under no com-
pulsion, yet, up to the latest moment, he would
not, perhaps we should say he dared not, recede.
He had, however, at one time proposed to his
mother that he should enter the Spanish navy,
which had the attraction of a scientific training.
The answer was devised with a revolting skill :~ it
was, that he might give up the clerical profession,
but that if he did he must return to the counting-
house. Thus the priesthood was forced upon him
as the indispensable condition of an intellectual
life. He became virtually committed to it by
taking sub-deacons orders at twenty-one, which
rendered him incapable of marriage.
From that time his intercourse with the world
was less closely watched. lie gives a strong opin-
ion that the demoralizing effect of the law of com-
pulsory celibacy,8 which, according to him, pro-
duced the utmost vigilance in guarding youth
against lawful attachments, and a coerlparattve
indifference to profligacy. It is clear, from his
journals at a later period,t that the direction of
his mind was towards the formation of domestic
ties. In his Autobiography he glances at the
injurious consequences of the outward restraint in
his own case.0 In iDoblados Letters, where he
employs the third person, he has also intinmated
them. But he prmtests, and with evident truth,
that immorality was not with him a conscious
inducement to unbelief.2
He was ordained priest in 1799; and for some
Doblado, p. 100. 2 Ibid. 1Life, I., p. 23.
4 Ibid., pp. 3548. 1 Ibid., p. 49.
6 Life, I., pp. 120, 124. 7 Ibid., p. 52.
Ibid., pp. 44, 53, and note p. 107; Evidence against
Catholicism, pp. 1317. tLife, III., p. 342.
10 Ibid., I., p. 117 and 132. it Doblado, pp. 1202.
~ Life, I., p. 109; and Evidence a~ainst Catholicism
p. 6.LIFE OF MIt. BLANCO WHITE.
short time after this he seems to have lived under
the power of strong devotional influences. He
had already become a fellow of the ~o1egio Mayor
of Seville. In, 1801 he competed for a canonry
at Cadiz ;2 and shortly after this he was elected a
chaplain of the Chapel Royal of St.. Ferdinand,
attached to the cathedral of SevilleA He does
not date with precision his transition to positive
and total unbelief; hut it seems, from his Life, to
have occurred either in or soon after l8O2.~ He
resolved, however, to continue his external con-
formity, and to discharge his practical duties in
the capacity of confessor, as he hest could.
Through the force of sympathy he took part with
the nation against the Bonapartes; hut his own
opinion was that more improvement would have
resulted from the French rule than could be other-
wise obtained, lie despaired, however, in his
own sense, of Spain; and, on the approach of the
French to Seville in 1810, he abandoned his coun-
try and his prospects for the hope of mental free-
dom and a residence in England.
On arriving here, he had, of course, difficulties
and discouragements to contend with, hut lie also
had friends; and the activity of his mind soon pro-
vided him with occupation. He was attracted
towards religion by the mildness which he found
combined with sincerity in some of it.s professors.
The perusal of Paleys Natural Theology be-
gan to reanimate his feelings towards God. A
service at St. James church affected him power-
fully.7 He resumed the habit of prayer. After
three years8 of growth he found himself convinced
of the truth of Christianity, and he joined the
Church of England as the renovated home of
his youth.9 When eighteen months more had
elapsed, in 1814, he subscribed the articles of the
Church of England, and claimed the recognition
of his character as a priest. But aft.er this slow
and gradual restoration he had hut a very short
period of rest. The detail of the records at this
period of his life is somewhat scanty, but it
appears clearly that, in 1817, he was assailed with
constant doubts on the doctrines of the Trinity and
the Atonement. In November, 1818, he records
his distinct abandonment of the divinity of our
Lord. In 1825 he returned to the orthodox be-
lief upon that subject. In 1826 he administered
the Eucharist and preached; and by an internal
act he dedicated himself anew to the sacred office,
reviving, as he says, many of the feelings of his
ordination. It appears to have been in or after
1829 that he addressed a letter to Neander, in
which he returned thanks to God for (as he sup-
posed) the final settlement of his religious views.
But from or even at this time he was gradually
sinking. He thought, in February, 1829,~ the
church of England retained too much of the spirit
of popery. By March, 1833, he had reduced the
Gospel once more to sublime simplicity ; to the
reception4 of Christ as our moral king, as our
saviour from moral evils or spiritual fears ; and
had determined that the doctrine of His divinity, as
Doblado, pp. 123-6; and Life, I., pp. 64, 65.
2Life, I., p. 85. Life, I., p. 92.
4 In another place he states that he passed ten years
in unbelief before his quitting Si~ain, (Evidence against
Catholicism, p. ii,) which took p ace in 1810.
5lbid.,I.,p. 112.
6 Evidence against Catholicism, p. 13.
7 lb., p. 14. 8 lb., p. 18.
Life, II., p. 48; and Evidence, p. 20.
iO Life, 1., p. 323. lb., p. 349.
12 lb., III., 133. 13 lb., 457. 14 lb., II., 4.
it was disputed, could not be essential. Up to
May, 1834, he disapproved of definite denials of
the Trinitarian doctrines. In December of the
same year he recorded himself a deliberate Uni-
tarian.3 He determined, with great delicacy of
feeling, to remove himself from the house of the
Archbishop of Dublin, in which he had been re-
siding for some time, before he should separate
from the church. In January, 1835, he effected
this removal, and placed himself at Liverpool,
where he joined the IJnitarian Society. In that
town and in its neighborhood he lived until his
death, in May, 1841. Here we bring this outline
to a close, proposing to take more particular notice
of some of the passages of his chequered and dis-
astrous career.
We may regard Mr. Blanco White in several
characters ; first as a witness to facts, and next as
the expositor, and still more as the victim of
opinions. With regard to the first of these capaci-
ties, he had abundant talent, remarkable honesty
and singleness of purpose, and large and varied
means of information and of comparison from the
the several positions which he occupied at different
times; and we think that the dispassionate reader
of his works will be disposed to place almost im-
plicit reliance upon his accounts of all such matters
as are the proper subjects of testimony.
Regarding him then in this capacity, we natur-
ally look in the first instance to the representations
which he has given us of the state of things in
Spain, and of this the most prominent characteris-
tic certainly is the unbelief which he declares to
have prevailed among the clergy. We have seeni
his view of the operation of the law of celibacy;
but he is much more definite and explicit upon the
other subject. In Doblados Letters4 he says,
A inong my numerous acquaintance in the Span-
ish clergy I have never met with any one pos-
sessed of bold talents who has not, sooner or later,
changed from the most sincere piety to a state of
unbelief.
Such a circumstance suggests very serious ques-
tions with regard to the actual system of the
church of Rome, under which it had come to pass;
and to us it goes far to explain the phenomenon,
when we recollect (for instance) that the immacu-
late conception of the Blessed Virgin passed in
Spain for an article of the Christian faith, practi-
cally no less sacred and certain than the mystery
of the incarnation. As to the accuracy of the
statement, we believe it may be corroborated by
the testimony of Roman Catholic witnesses, par-
ticularly with reference to the capitular and digni-
fied clergy of Spain as they then were. But the
passage also establishes the fact that the state
from which the transition took place was usually
one of earnest devotion, and that the life of the
young priest opened at least in piety. It would
seem, therefore, that there was at least a well-
meant endeavor to impart a religious education,
and to impress the mind of the young candidate
for orders with an adequate sense of his voca-
tion.
He has, however, again and again repeated his
assertion with regard to unbelief, in his Prac-
tical and Internal Evidence against Catholi-
cism :,__
I do attest, from the most certain knowledge,
that the history of my own mind is, with little
Life, II., 20. 2 lb., I., II., 42. lb., II., 61.
4 Page 126.
156 LIFE OF MR. BLANCO WHITE. 157
variation, that of a great portion of the Spanish
clergy. The fact is certain.
In another passage he writes still more broadly,
hut rather to a matter of opinion than one of
fact
I have been able to make an estimate of the
moral and intellectual state of Spain, which few
who know me and that country will, I trust, be
inclined to discredit. Upon the strength of this
knowledge, I declare, again and again, that very
few among my own class (I comprehend clergy
and laity) think otherwise than I did hefore my
removal to England.2
Arid, once more, in contrast with a different
state of things among the English clergy
I cannot dismiss this subject without most
solemnly attesting, that the strongest impressions
which enliven and support my Christian faith are
derived from my friendly intercourse with mem-
hers of that insulted clergy; while, on the con-
trary, I know bnt very few Spanish priests,
whose talents or acquirements were above con-
tempt, who had not secretly renounced their re-
ligion.3
In his Antobiography he particularizes these
statements by reference to individuals; but nothing
more. It is hut just also to record that, while his
evidence hears hard upon the morals of the friars4
in Spain, he declares unequivocally in favor of the
Jesuits, both as to their purity of character and the
practical effects of their influence :~ arid with re-
gard to nunneries, although he states that he
never knew souls more polluted than those of
some of the professed vestals of the Church of
Rome,6 yet he represents the opposite case to he
the rule
The greater part of the nuns whom I have
known were beings of a much higher description
females whose purity owed nothing to the
strong gates and high walls of the cloister.
When we return to Mr. Blanco Whites evi-
dence upon the state of religion and of the clergy
in England, we must of course make liheral allow-
ance with regard to so much as he said at a time
when his mind was, as he subsequently considered,
carried away by the returning tide of religious
sympathies. Indeed, for some time he had rio eye
for our faults and shortcomings: and in the very
unqualified praises that were bestowed upon his
works by some persons of authority,8 we cannot
but trace the reciprocal operation of a principle
analogous to that of the proverb that forbids us
to look a gift horse in the mouth. The mem-
bers of all Christian communities must be conscious
of the temptation not to scrutinize over-rigidly
the pretensions of a convert from a rival per-
suasion. Otherwise, we cannot but think that, in
the works which Mr. White published while he
was ostensibly of the Church of England, there
were ominous indications, and a vagueness which
now in retrospect tends to warrant the impression
that he never at any period recovered an intelli-
gent and firm hold even of the great Catholic dog-
mas concerning the nature of God.
It is consolatory, however, to find that his final
lapse could not have been owing to any of his
associates among our clergy. For in his Obser-
Practical and Internal Evidence, p. 8.
2 Ibid., p. 28. ~ Ibid., p. 60.
4 Doblado, p. 475. lb., pp. 86, 87, and 474.
o Life, 1., p. 70.
~ Practical and Internal Evidence, p. 135.
B Life, I., pp. 415, 419, 424, 433, 440.
vations on Heresy and Orthodoxy, published in
1835, he says, with regard to his friends of that
order
Without exception, all and every one of them
are, to my knowledge, conscientious believers in
the divinity of Christ.
He writes, indeed, in year l829~
In England unbelief has made a rapid pro-
gress, hoth among the higher and the lower
classes.
In 1835 he states that the days of orthodoxy
are certainly goue by,2 and artificial belief4 is
easier and more powerful in coniplete popery
than in mixed, by which he means Athanasian,
~iProtestantisrrr
And again
What is called the Protestant religion is
nothing but a mutilated system of popery; ground-
less, incongruous, and full of contradictions. I am
riot at all surprised when I hear that the number
of Roman Catholics is increasing.
In short, he repeatedly indicates the opinion
that, if there is to be fixed dogmatic faith, it will
be most naturally sought in the system of the
Church of Rome.6 Such is his theory: but he
bears very important testimony to the fact that
dogmatic faith is most extensively and most tena-
ciously held in England, and that too among
classes who seem to have surrendered many of its
supports. Of course it would be expected that he
would regard with horror any assertion of the
authority of the church or of the spiritual gifts of
the sacred ministry : yet he recognizes the power
even of these principles with alarm. He writes,
in 1836, to Professor Norton, in America
We are, unfortunately, retrograde in this
country. The grossest spirit of mysticism and
popery has revived at Oxford ; not without perse-
cution against those who, though feebly, venture
to oppose it.7
So he had written to Mr. Armstrong, in
l835~
Orthodoxy poisons every man more or less (in
this country perhaps more than where it is merely
a name) from the cradle.
And to another person,9
I deeply lament that England, a land I love
and admire, my second country, should be the spot
in Europe most deeply sunk into that refined
intolerance which attributes opinions to moral de-
pravity.
And to Mr. Mill
I am convinced that no country in the world
suffers more from false notions of religion than
England. Spain and Italy are indeed ruined by
an established superstition of the grossest kind
but they have the advantage that the subject is
treated as a mere concession to be made to igno-
rance till some more favorable moment may arrive
for dislodging the abettors of the nuisance from
their ruinous strongholds. But in England the
most mischievous, because the most intolerant,
superstition has succeeded in disguising itself into
something like knowledge and system. It exists
in the garb of philosophy, meddling with every-
thing, not as a mere matter of fact, hut as reason
and right.~~iO
We could fill whole pages with extracts ex
Preface, p. iz.
Life, II., p. 139.
5 In i835, Life, II.,p. 140.
7 Life, II., p. 192.
9 lb., p. 109.
2 Life, I., p. 458.
lb., p. 126.
6 lb., III. p. i06.
S Tb., II., p. 101
01b.,p. 137. 158 LIFE OF MR. BLANCO WHITE.
pressing his most hitter complaints against the uni-
versal spirit of Bihliolatry in England.1 He
finds the attempt to maintain an authoritative reve-
lation, which he thinks so mischievous, to he com-
mon to Christian persuasions generally.2 The
ordinary idea of God, he says, is anthropomorphic,
it is gross idolatry.3 Nay, he repeatedly laments
the prevalence and power of superstition even
among the lJnitarians.~ All this affords ground
for thankfulness; and tends to support the hope
that, although the prevalent notions in this coun-
try may on several points of religion he inexact
although a dangerous licence is assumed of dis-
tinguishing hetween different articles of faith
according to their supposed importance to the indi-
vidual niindalthough even schism and heresy he
too manifest among usstill those habits of mind
are deeply rooted in the people which are tile fun-
damental conditions of Catholic faiththe view,
namely, of revelation as something fixed and im-
mutable, and the conviction of the ethical charac-
ter of Christian dogmas, and of their indissoluble
connection with the conduct of life. While this is
the case, even though the walls should he thrown
down, and the foundations laid bare, still their
seat in the heart and mind of man is unas-
sailed.
So much for Mr. Blanco White as a witness to
facts. XVhen we turn to the consideration of his
claims as a teacher in divine philosophy, we are
alike baffled hy the weakness, the incongruity, and
the perpetual defluxion of his doctrines. He was
indeed, during the last ten years of his life, in a
kind of moral atrophy, incessantly employed upon
mental speculation, but qnite incapable of deriving
nourishment from that which he devoured with an
appetite so ravenous. So that he pined more and
more, from year to year: and we can scarcely
measure the miserable intensity of his disease when
we find him sunk so far below the Unitarian heresy
as to write to Mr. Norton, the Unitarian professor,
that they differ on essentials ;5 and when the same
Mr. Norton, himself a Christian in the Unitarian
sense, in his controversy with Mr. Ripley, had
completely excluded him (Mr. Blanco White) from
the class of Christians,~l under the influence of
the spirit of orthodoxy. It was indeed no great
wonder that any one should have done so, with
whom human language was other than a mockery
and a fraud ; for about the same time Mr. Blanco
White was surely preparing himself for emanci-
pation from the last of his fetters, the name of
our religion, or he could hardly have written
thus :~
How superior, in various respects, is Islamism
to superstitious Christianity! It may shock many,
but I must express my expectation that hoth the
corrupt church Christianity and Islamism itself
will disappear in the course of ages, and that the
two religions will return to their primitive source
the pure patriarchal and primitive view, the true
Christian view, of God and maii !~
And a little further on he institutes a contrast
between Paganism and Christianity, in direct dis-
paragement of the latter.
The contradictions with which his work abounds
are indescribable. He indeed wonders at his own
intellectual consistency9probably because he had
For instance, II., pp. 13, 136, 191, 344 III., p. 380.
2 III., p. 66. ~ III., p. 78.
I., pp. 228, 264,275, 276. Life, II., p. 361.
6 lb., III., p. 207. 7 lb., III., 277, note.
8 lb., III., p. 280. lb., III., p. 29.
forgotten many of the opinions he had renounced,
and because of the remarkable positiveness with
which he in most cases adopted for the moment
the successive modifications of his views. Even
the phenomena of his own mind, which seem to
have been latterly his only remaining realities, are
stated by him in modes quite irreconcilable with
each other. For example, during his later life the
constant tenor of his representation is, that his
return to what he terms orthodoxy, and what we
should call partial belief, for some years between
1812 and 1818, and again between 1825 and 1832,
was the effect of his religious sympathies, obtain-
ing for the time the mastery over his understand-
ing.1 But at the first of ihese peiiods he had
taken a directly opposite view; for he embodied
his sentiments in the prayer which follows
0 Lord, my heavenly Father, who knowest
how much of sin still remains in my heart, root out
of my mind, I beseech thee, the habits of unbelief
which I often feel in myself, stirring against the
full persuasion of my understanding on the truth
of thy revelation, and the strong desire of my heart
after that perfect and tranquil assurance in the
promises of thy Gospel; of which, through the
impious conduct of my youth, I have made myself
absolutely unworthy.
He expresses the same sentiments in Isis Prac-
tical and Internal Evidence against Catholicism.3
Now, upon the whole, we believe that there not
only may, hut must be, very considerable truth in
these earlier statements. Because the fact stands
upon record that he had passed (between Spain
and England) at least ten years in total unbelief.
Was it possible that in so long a period he could
fail to form skeptical habits of mind; and had they
not time to become to a considerable degree in-
veterate? It must be borne in mind that our intel-
lectual as well as our moral nature is liable to be
powerfully affected by habits previously formed.
lATe know, for instance, that a statesman, a divine,
and a lawyer, each fairly representing his class,
will usually take different views of a subject even
where they agree in their conclusion: that they
must approach it with distinct predispositions.
These predispositions mire the results of their
several employments, which propose to them the
several ends of policy, law, and divine truth, and
modify their common mental acts accordingly.
Much more must this be the case where the opera-
tive cause cuts so deep, lies so close to the very
root of our moral being, as in a case of total unbe-
lief combined with the exterior acts of the sacer-
dotal profession. But Mr. Blanco White, so far
from seeing in these facts of his history any dis-
qualification, whether total or partial, for his philo-
sophical investigations on moral subjects, rather
pleads the tenor of his whole life as Isis grand
claim to credit. Thus he writes to Miss L,
in 1836 :~
having gone through almost every modifica-
tion of the spirit of devotion, except those which
l)ear the stamp of gross extravagance, I must pos-
sess a practical knowledge of the artful disguises
of superstition, which no natural talent, no powers
of thought. can give by means of study and medi-
tation. It is the results of thiat individual experi-
ence, and not any new doctrine or theoretical sys-
tem, which I have thought it a duty of Christian
friendship to give you without disguise.
Life, 1., pp. 320, 340, 363; III., 126.
2 lb., I., p. 319. Page 17. Life, II., p. 262.LIFE OF MR. JILANCO WHITE.
It is true he speaks of experience, not of opin-
ions; but, in point of fact., thought is mental
experience; and if the distinction can be drawn, it
is quite irrelevant here, for the very letter from
which the citation is taken is one of pure theory.
We say, therefore, that when we find Mr.
Blanco White systematically ignoring the effect
which ten years of unbelief not only might hut
must have had upon the habits of his mind, we
are driven to conclude that he was, however quick
and inquisitive, yet a careless, and therefore a had
psychologist.
His writings do not indeed present a system of
belief or of unbelief sufficiently definite to he the
subject of methodical argument throughout; and
they are not less irregular and incongruous in sub-
stance than they are in form. They are constant
to nothin~ but to mutability. They present, how-
ever, a remarkable number of curious phenomena,
and among them that of an intense satisfaction, an
ardor of delight, in the Unitarian creed and wor-
ship at the period when he formally joined their
societies in Liverpool :1
The service at the Unitarian chapel, Paradise
street, has given me the most unmixed delight.
(Sunday, Feb. 1st, 1835.)
Previously to this he
had no conception of the power which sacred
poetry, full of real religious sentiment, and free
from the mawkish mysticism which so much
abounds in some collections, can exert over the
heart and mind. * * * If Christianity is to
become a living power in the civilized parts of the
world, it must be under the Unitarian form. * * *
What strikes me niost of all is, what I might call
the reality, the true connection with life, which
this worship possesses. All that I had practised
before seemed to lie in a region scarcely within
view. * * * Here the prayers, the whole
worship, is a part of my real life. I pray with
my spirit, I pray with my understanding also.
May I not say, that suffering every hour from the
bleeding wounds of my heart, those wounds that
even my friends touch roughly, I have been
already rewarded for acting in conformity with
principle!
And there is much more to the same effect.
Shall we offer our explanation of the enigma
which this outburst of devout gratification in con-
nection with the freezing system of the Socinian
worship appears to present It is this the wave-
tossed swimmer, gasping for breath, had been cast
upon a shore; he had not had time to perceive that
it was a barren one, and he did not know that an-
other billow would soon bear him back to sea. His
mind had rest and satisfaction when he exchanged
interminable doubts and the disgusts of a false and
abstractedly a dishonest position for the definite
view, and with the view the confession, of two
essential parts of the Catholic faith, the unity of
God and the mission of Christ. Thus he exulted
in Unitarianism as a starving garrison make a ban-
quet upon a supply of ~arbage. But this did not
and could not last. The narrow measure even of
Unitarian dogma was soon felt to be too broad for
him. Blank misgivings, questionings, returned
upon him. Skepticism was gorged for the moment;
but its appetite too soon revived. Only two years
after these raptures2 he wits so perplexed in his
view of the being of God, that he said, man could
Life, II., p. 92: see also pp. 88, iOi, i2t, 123, i24~
2 Life, II., p. 283.
159
only turn to the light within him and follow it, for..
getting the dark mystery of his existence. Then
he ceased to realize Christianity as an historical
revelation. He ceased to perceive the duty of
prayer.2 He lost his view of the personal immor-
tality of the soul.3 He placed the idea of the
Deity somewhere between the Christian belief and
Pantheism,~ and declared the latter to be the lesser
evil. He reminds us of the long descent in the
Inferno, from stage to stage, and circle to circle,
each lower and each narrower than the last, until
it ends in the eternal ice of Giudecca. The
accompaniments, as regarded his owti peace, of
this process of destruction, he has feelingly de-
scribed in these lines5 (1837)
Brother, or sister, whosoeer thou art!
Couldst thou but see the fang that gnaws my
heart,
Thou wouldst forgive this transient gush of
scorn,
Would shed a tear, in pity wouldst thou mourn
For one who, spite the wrongs that lacerate
His weary soul, has never learnt to hate.
And we trust that his appeal to pity will meet
with a universal response. The claim made on
his behalf,5 that he should be regarded as a
standard-bearer of mankind, calls for firm resist-
ance; many of his opinions warrant, and indeed
demand from us, a sentiment nothing short of
horror; hut the ntan himself, who, if he erred ter-
ribly, suffered not less deeply, and who, amidst
bewildering error and acute and protracted pain,
still cherished many of the sentiments that belong
to duty and to piety; he has a right to receive at
our hands sympathy and tenderness, and we
should leave the dark questions of his destiny
there, where alone there is skill to solve them, in
The bosom of his Father and his God.
There were, it is evident, many signs of noble-
ness, both in fragments of his opinions, and in his
conduct to the last. After he had become a Unita-
rian, he could still discern7 the essential mis-
take which lies at the bottom of Paleys system ;
and when he was sinking yet lower, he did not
cease (in 1837) to appreciate the excellence of
Bishop Butlers theory8 of human nature. He
recommended that in philosophical inquiries we
should be on our guard against selfishness, and
rule points in opposition to our inclinations.t He
held (1838) that our naturet0 was unable to com-
prehend moral truth beyond its own degree of
purity. He contended that virtue has an authority
and obligatiomi independently of the ideas of our
indefinite existence, amid of its securing our happi-
ness; and even after he had ceased to retain any
determinate belief in our future life, he still clung
with happy inconsistency to the idea that in the
hands of his Maker he shottld be safe,2 and that
God would certainly re~vard the disinterested gen-
erosity of a friend.3 lie cherished, with whatever
associations, the love of God,4 and maintained re-
signation to His ~~iIl,even when it seems almost im- -
possible to see how he could have had a dogmatic
belief in the existence of a Divine will at all. There
was, in short, a disposition to resist the tyranny
of self, to recognize the rule of duty, to maintains
Life, II., p. 318.
4 lb., II., p. a6i.
6 Introduction, p. x.
lb., II., p. 282. lb.3
lb., II., p. 300.
~ lb., III., p. 20.
2 lb., II. lb., III., p. 63,.
II)., II., p. 334.
7 Life, II., p. 87.
II., p. 270. ~ lb., III.,p. 25...
t2 lb., III., p. ior.
4 lb., III., p. i07. 160 LIFE OF MR. BLANCO WHITE.
the supremacy of the higher over the lower parts
of our nature, which is not always equally observ-
able, in less heterodox writers, and which imparts
some tinge of consolation to the melancholy and
painful retrospect of his life and opinions.
There are also circumstances connected with the
discharge of activc duty, vhich should not be for-
gotten on his behalf. We cannot banish all senti-
ments of respect for one who twice in his life, for
the sake even of erroneous conviction, and after
much lingering and hesitation, severed himself
from almost every worldly good. There may he
persons who are entitled to condemn and upbraid
him ; but such a voice should not come from
among those who live in the lap of bodily and
mental ease, who have never experienced his
trials, and upon whom God has never laid the
weight of his afflictions. When he was bed-
ridden, in his old age and in the solitude of his
lodgingsolitude not the less sensible because lie
dwelt in one of the streets of busy Liverpoolhis
son, who bears the queens commission, returned
from service in India to visit him. It is evident
that this period was one of great enjoyment and
relief. However, keeping in view his sons pro-
fessional prospects, he writes to a friend that he
has advised him to return to India ;i and, he
adds,
but as I shook him hy the hand on Saturday
evening, knowing that I should in all probability
never see him again, I could hardly contain my
anguish within my bosom. Fortunately I was
going to bed, where I could give way to my sor-
row.
And he enters in his journal, June 15th, 1839
Took my last leave of Ferdinand, and felt as if
my heart was breaking.
He indeed ascribes this paternal act, so tenderly
and delicately performed, to his philosophy; we
must take leave rather to set it down to the genial
instincts of a nature which, speaking according to
ordinary usage, we should call evidently an unsel-
fish one, and full of kindly affections.
We have stated that these volumes do not con-
tain any regular system of unbelief; but their
author has presented to us very distinctly the par-
ticular stumbling-block which first, and also lat-
terly, overthrew his faith, and which appears to
have been the disposition to demand an amount, or
rather a kind, of evidence in favor of revealed reli-
gion different from that which the nature of the
subject matter and the analogies of our human
state entitles us to expect.
Let us then advert to the original form of the.
delusion to which Mr. Blanco White became a prey
on the two greatest occasions of his falling away,
separated as they were by an interval of some
thirty-five years2a circumstance which he con-
ceives to be confirmatory of the justice of his
courseas indeed it is, if the argument itself be a
sound one, but which has a significancy of quite
an opposite nature if it he intrinsically and radi-
cally bad. Here then we will give the n~7,rov
as he himself, and that apparently with nO
small complacency, has stated it, and as he applied
itfirst to the authority of the churchsecondly,
to the inspiration of Holy Scripture, and the
authenticity of its component partsthe two pil-
lars, in his view, of the system of Catholicity and
orthodoxy.3
I will grant as much as possible to the defend-
~Life, IU.,p. ~s. 2 lb., III., p. 136. lb., lII.,p. 145.
ers of the authenticity of the gospels: I will
acknowledge that what is alleged against that
authenticity does not rise above conjecture. But,
premising that the authenticity would not prove
the inspiration of those writings, I ask, have the
arguments any higher character than probability in
regard to authenticity? Can anything but hypo-
thetical fitness be pleaded for inspiration l Now
the orthodox probabilities have very high probabil-
ities against them; the hypothesis is all conjec-
tured. And is it upon such grounds that Heaven
can have demanded an absolute certainty of belief
in the authenticity and divine auth6rity of the
whole Bible l The demand would be nionstrous;
belief, according to the immutable laws of the
human mind, cannot be stronger than its grounds.
God, who gave such laws to our souls, could not
make it a moral duty for man to act against them.
This was written in 1839. He had, however,
placed upon record some similar reasoning several
years before, and with reference to his first inqui-
ries in England soon after the year 1814. The
Scriptures, he there says, are
time highest authority in matters directly con-
nected with Christianity. But even that authority
is not entitled to implicit and blind obedience.
Why l Because the authenticity of those writings
is only an historical probability.tm * * *
The case is exactly parallel to that of the
Roman Catholic divines when defending the supre-
macy and infallibility of Peter and his pretended
successors.2 * * * *
The foundation of certainty must be certain.
Divines would make the Eternal Fountain of
Reason more illogical than the weakest man. If
God had intended to dwell miraculously among
men in a book, as in an oracle, from which we
might obtain infallible answers, he would not have
left that first foundation of the intemided certainty
to probability and conjecture.
These quotations, we believe, are sufficient to
convey the form and the force of his argument; so
that we may at once proceed to state our objec-
tions to it.
We are surprised at the cool and almost con-
temptuous manner in which Mr. Blanco White
speaks of the most celebrated work of Bishop But-
ler. After commending the sermons of that great
writer, he proceeds
Butlers Analogy is an inferior work. The
argument of analogy, especially when applied to
the Christianity of churches, is totally unsatisfac-
tory.~
Now we must venture to hazard the conjecture
that he had never adequately studied this infe-
rior work; of which it appears to us that even
the several members, apart from the general argu-
ment, are so many distinct and permanent contri-
butions to that philosophy which will eiidure as
long as the dispensation of our moral state.
In his Introduction, Bishop Butler has given a
brief view of probable evidence, its nature, scope,
and obligatory power, which we think affords
materials for the confutation of the sophistry of the
argument before us. Philosophizing upon human
action, we must collect its laws from a legitimate
induction; and we cordially subscribe to the prin-
ciple, that God, who has given certain laws to
our souls, could not m?tke it a moral duty for man
to act against them.
Life, I., 279.
2 Compare Practical and Internal Evidence, p. 109.
3 Life, II., P. 282.LIFE OF MR. BLANCO WHITE.
161
Now the argument of Mr. Blanco White appears, constitution of our minds, is such as to exclude all
firstly, to confound belief with knowledge; and, doubt. Human language applies the denornina-
secondly, to assume that orthodoxy, or the Cath- tion of knowledge to such assent, in cases where
olic faith, is connected with belief rather than with this exclusion is entire and peremptory in the
action, or with belief apart from action. As to the highest degree. Between that poiot arid the point
first: your evidences, says he, are not demon- at which a proposition becomes improbable, and a
strative; therefore I cannot believe. This is a just understanding inclines to its rejection, an in-
gross inconsequence. We must entreat the reader finity of shades of likelihood intervene. For cx-
to remember that in the language of metaphysics ample: where the exclusion of doubt is after con-
the term probability includes everything short of sideration entire, but yet not peremptory and
absolute and infallible, or properly scientific cer- immediate ; where it depends upon the compre-
tainty; and with this single caution we proceed to hensive and continuous view of many particulars;
reply, demonstration is the appropriate foundation where it rests upon the recollection of a demon-
of knowledge, but probability of belief. stration, of which the detail has escaped from the
Assuredly, we are not about to take refuge from memory; where it proceeds from some strong
the adversary in pleading the majesty of faith as original instinct, incapable of analysis in the last
against reason, in an appeal to theology against resort these are all cases in which doubt might
experience, in inventing a new law of credibility be entirely banished, but we should scarcely know
fur religious purposes, which shall be inapplicable whether to say our assent was founded on knowl-
to common life. There is indeed a dictum in edge or upon belief, the shades of the two, as they
vogue with some, where mystery begins religion are commonly understood, passing into one an-
ends ; which almost provokes the parody, where other; but generally this distinction would be
antithesis begins common sense ends. But our taken between them; that we should call knowl-
intention is to charge upon the theory of Mr. edge what does not to our perceptions admit of
Blanco White this intelligible and capital offence; degree, and what does admit of it we should call
that it, like all the tribe to which it belongs, errs belief, although we might in the particular case
against reason, against experience, against the possess it in the highest degree, 51) that it should
principles on which the ordinary and uniform have all the certainty of knowledge; Just as we
practice of mankind in ordinary life is founded; can readily conceive two stations, the one at the
which ordinary and uniform practice, and not the head of a pillar, and the other of a stair, yet of
crotchets of a disorderly arid unstable understand- equal altitude.
ing, may suffice to show us, with some tolerable Now the fundamental proposition on which we
clearness, what really are those laws which God rest, and for the proof of which we appeal, with-
has given to our souls, and which it is not only out fear of a disputed reply, to the universal prac
not a f [nankind, is this: that the whole system
duty to infringe, but the very first and high- tice o
est duty to observe in act, and to maintain in un- of our moral conduct, and much also of our con-
disputed authority, duct that is not directly moral, rests upon belief
First, we hold that it is only by a licence of as contradistinguished from knowledge, and not
speech that the term knowledge can be applied to always upon belief in the very hiahest deoree
any of our human perceptions. For as nothing which utterly extinguishes doubt, but in every di-
can in tire nature of things, properly speaking, be versity of degree so long as any appreciable por-
known, except that which exists, or known in any tron of comparative likelihood remains, although
manner other than that exact mariner in which it many of these degrees may be hampered with very
exists, it follows that knowledge can properly be considerable doubt as they actually subsist in the
predicated only of those perceptions which are ab- mind, and many more cases would be open to sen-
solutely and exactly true; and further, that it can OUS doubts if they were subjected to speculative
be so predicated only by those who infallibly know examination. Arid further, that this, which is
them to be true, in strictness, therefore, knowl- indisputable in point of fact, is not less irrefraga-
edge is not predicable by us of any one of our own ble in point of reason; and that any other rule for
perceptions; whatever number of them may be the guidance of human life would be not irreli-
true, we do not infallibly know of any one of them gious, but irrational in the extreme. We take
that it is true. Of all the steps in the operations first a case of the highest practical certainty.
of our mental faculties, there is not one at which How do we know that the persons who purport to
it is abstractedly impossible that error should inter- be our parents, brothers and sisters, really are
vene; and as this is nut impossible, knowledge, what they pass for It is manifest that the posi-
the certain and precise correspondence of the per- tive evidence producable in each case falls far
cipient and the thing perceived, cannot be cate- short of a demonstrative character; nay more, it
gorically asserted. If, therefore, without knowl- is perfectly well known that in many cases these
edge in its scientific sense there can be no legiti- relations have been pretended where they did not
mate belief, this wide universe is a blank, and exist, and the delusion long maintained. And yet
nothing can be believed: nothing theological, no- every man carries in his mind a conviction upon
thing moral, nothing social, nothing physical. In the subject, as it regards himself, utterly exclu-
a word, abstract certainty, in this dispensation, sive of doubt. And those who should raise doubts
we scarcely can possess, though we may come in- upon it, in consequence of the want of mathemati-
definitely near it: and knowledge and certainty, cal certainty, would be deemed fitter for Bedlam
and all similar expressions as practical terms must than for the pursuit of philosophical inquiries.
be understood not absolutely but relativelyrela- Here then is an absolute contradiction, supplied
tively that is to the limit imposed by the nature of by that universal conviction and practice of man
our faculties, and this not with regard to revela- kind, from whence by a legitinrate induction we
tion only, but throughout the whole circle of our infer the true laws of our nature, to the theorems
experience, of Mr. Blanco White, or perhaps rather to his
Nex tto this abstract certainty, comes that kind grand inference from them, namely, that the do-
of assent to propositions which, according to the mand made upon men for the reception of Chris-LIFE OF MR. IThANCO WHITE.
tianity is greater than can be warranted by the rea-
sons on which it purports to rest. But again,
there are numberless instances in wbich a very
great practical uncertainty prevails, and yet where
we must act just as we should if there were no
doubt at all. A man with many children will pre-
pare them all for after-life, though probably one
or more will die before attaining maturity. A
tells B th t his house is on fire; A niay have mo-
tives for deceiving him, but B, if he be a rational
man, quits the most interesting occupation, and
goes to see. But there is no end to the multipli-
cation of instances; let any man examine his own
daily experience, and be will find that its whole
tissue is made up of them; or, in the words of
that inferior work of Bishop Butler, to us
probability is the very guide of life. Mr.
Blanco White might indeed have received very
useful lessons on this subject from an ingenious
and really philosophical brochure of Archbishop
Whatelys, entitled Historic Doubts concerning
tbe Existence of Napoleon Bonaparte, in which
he shows how open to abstract objections are the
grounds upon which, as individuals, we receive
facts even of common notoriety.
Now it will not be enough for the opponent to
retort that probability will do for small matters,
but that in great ones, and especially in what re-
gards the salvation of the soul, we must have
demonstration. For the law of credibility, upon
which our common and indeed universal practice
is founded, has no more dependence upon the
magnitude of the objects to which it is applied
than have the numbers of the arithmetical scale,
which embrace motes and mountains with exactly
the same propriety, It is not the greatness or
minuteness of the proposition, but the balance be-
tween likelihood and unlikelihood, which we have
to regard whenever we are called to determine
upon assent or rejection. It is true, indeed, that
when the matter is very small, the evil of acting
against probability will be small also. But this
shows that in a practical view the obligation of the
law becomes not less but more astringent as the
rank of the subject in question rises; because tIme
best and most rational method of avoiding a very
great evil, or of realizing a very great good, has a
much higher degree of claim upon our considera-
tion and acceptance in proportion to the degree of
the greatness of the object in vmew.
But, next, is Mr. Blanco White correct in say-
ing that the Christianity of churches demands
from all its disciples, at all stages of their pro-
gress, an absolute and mathematical conviction I
Where did he learn so severe a theology? Hook-
er2 has shown in his sermon on the certainty and
perpetuity of faith in the elect, of which the doc-
trine is by no means lax, that true faith does not
imply the exclusion of all doubt whatever. He
even says, speaking of revealed truths, of them
at some time who doubteth not ~ Bishop Pear-
son defines Christian belief to be an assent to that
which is credible, as credible. But clearly, much
that is on the whole credible is open to a degree
of doubt; although it could not be credible unless
the doubt were outweighed upon a comparison by
tIme evidences in its favor. What, again, is the
meaning of Lord, I believe; help thou mine on-
belief? There is, in such a case, a conflict
within the mind: it is divided, though unequally
1 Introduction to the Analogy of Natural and Revealed
Religion, p. 4.
2 Works, III., p. 585, ed. Keble, 1836.
divided. This, however, is the exception, not the
rule. In general we do not imagine that even the
nascent belief of Christians is seriously troubled
with substantive doubts; but it clearly has not, and
cannot have, nor have the great majority of our most
rational acts in common life, a foundation in that
philosophical completeness of conviction, which is
an essential condition of the permanent and abso-
lute freedom from doubt. But in point of fact,
the formation of this mature belief, the mode of
dealing with temptation when it arises in the form
of doubt, is a high portion of the discipline of the
soul; all that we need here lay down is this : to
hold that an absolute intellectual certainty belongs
of necessity to the reception of Christianity, is a
proposition altogether erroneous.
We shall note one other and gross error, as it
appears to us, in this part of the philosophy of Mr.
Blarico White. The stages of mental assent and
dissent are almost innumerable; but the alterna-
tives of action proposed by the Catholic faith are
two only. There is a narrow way and a broad
one ; in the one or the other of these every man,
according to his testimony, must walk. It will
not do to say, I see this difficulty about the Chris-
tian theory, so I cannot adopt it; and that difficul-
ty about the anti-Christian theory, so I cannot em-
brace that; I will wait and attach myself to nei-
ther. Could our whole being, except the sheer
intellect, be laid in abeyance, such a notion would
at least be intelligible; but in the mean time, life
and its acts proceed:
E mangia, e bee, e dorme, e veste panni 1
and not only as to these functions, but also our
moral habits are in the course of formation or
destruction; character receives its bias; there are
appetites to he governed, powers to be employed;
and these matters cannot be wholly nor at all
adjourned. The discharge of the daily duties of
our position absolutely must be adapted either to
the supposition that we have a Creator and a
Redeemer, or to the supposition that we have not.
There is no intermediate verdict of not proven,
which leaves the question open: the question to
us is, Is there such proof as to demand obedience?
and there are no possible replies in act, whatever
there may be in word, except aye and no. The lines
of conduct are but two, and our liberty is limited to
the choice between them. Here it is, therefore, that
we perceive the stringent obligation of the law ~f
credibility, as applied to the belief of Christianity,
upon man. On a subject purely abstract or not
entailing moral responsibilities, upon the genera-
tion of the present structure of the world by fire or
water, upon the theory of vibrations in optics, upon
the system of Copernicus or of Descartes, we
might have taken refuge in a philosophical sus-
pense, while the evidence fell short of demonstra-
tion; and even after the proof has been completed,
the error of withholding assent is not a fatal one;
but the belief which Christianity enforces, it en-
forces as the foundation of daily conduct, as the
framework into which all acts, all thoughts, all
hopes, affections and desires, are to be cast, and by
which they must be moulded. Whatever it
teaches, for example, concerning the work and the
person of our Lord, it teaches not in the abstract,
but as holding forth Him whose steps we are
to follow, in whom our whole trust is to be
reposed, with whom we are to be vitally incor-
porated, and whom accordingly we must needs
1 Inferno, xxxiii. 141.
162LIFE OF MR. ~LANCO WHITE.
know even though in a glass darkly, for
how can we imitate, or how love, without some
kind of vision, and how can definite vision he
transmitted from man to man without language;
and what are the creeds but the vision of God as
He is, transferred into language? So again,
whatever the Catholic faith teaches concerning the
church, it teaches us concerning the organ hy
which these operations are to be effected in us,
even as the schoolboy is taught the rules of school
in which he is to learn, and the workman those of
the art which he is to practise. Now, singular as
it is, considering that we have before us the case
of a person of such a character and such a posi-
tion, we find in Mr. Blanco Whites system no
recognition of the fact, we do not say that the
Catholic faith is actually connected with Christian
practice, (which would be begging the question
from him,) but that the Catholic faith is taught by
the church as being so connected, as being the
proper and exclusive foundation of Christian prac-
tice; so that her demand is by no means that of
an assent to a scheme of abstract dogmas; it is the
demand for our conforming to a new law of heart
and life, which new law (as she says) can only
take effect under the influence of the faith and by
the agency which it provides; it is the old charter
of the gospel testifying repentance towards God,
and therewith, but only in indissoluble conjunc-
tion therewith, also faith in the Lord Jesus
Christ. In discussing therefore the reception or
rejection of Christianity, according to its credibility
or incredibility, we must remember that it purports
to be a system of belief and action inseparably
combined, and therefore that if it be credible it
entails the obligation not of a speculation but of a
liractical question, a question to be decided here
and now, which cannot be relegated to the region
of indifference, but which, even if our understand-
ing refuse to act, our conduct must either recog-
nize as true, or else repudiate as false.
Against this part, then, of Mr. Whites doctrine,
we contend, that Christianity does not require the
highest degree of intellectual certainty in order to
be honestly and obediently received; and that the
very same principles which govern our action in
common life, cognizable by common sense, are
those which, fortified through Gods mercy with a
singular accumulation and diversity of evidence,
demand our reception of the word and our implicit
obedience to it; and that we cannot refuse this
demand upon the plea that the evidence is only
probable and not demonstrative, without rebellion
~gainst the fundamental laws of our earthly state,
as they are established by a truly Catholic consent
in the perpetual and universal practice of man-
kind.
And it is well worthy of remark, that Mr. Blanco
White did not deny that probability was in favor
of the Christian Revelation. This is plain, from
the passages on which we have been arguing.
But even at a later time he allowed that the Chris-
tian revelation was proved up to a certainper-
haps a slightdegree of probability. Upon his
own statement, therefore, it stands that he fol-
lowed the improbable; and as the evidence was
conclusive neither way, he chose that side upon
which the lack was greatest; and his doctrine is
overturned by the very argument which he has
taken for its foundation.
From this subject we pass on to observe, that
Mr. Blanco White entertained the notion, common
with those in his unhappy condition, that the
nioral part of the gospel could he separated from
its dogmatical part. This we shall show from his
own words, and we shall also endeavor to point out
the steps by which he arrived at the position, and
to blanc e at its consequences. He originally
rejected Christianity in Spain, because he could
not find the proof of a living infallible judge in
questions of religion, and because he found that
the Roman Church, which claimed that ch~ racter,
had not sustained it in practice.tm X\Then he came
to England, the theory of religion presented to
him, on which his reviving affections fastened, was
one very different from that of the formularies or
of the theologians of the English Church, but
which has nevertheless, from time to time since
the Reformation, obtained various degrees of cur-
rency in the popular mind. We cannot describe it
more shortly, than by saying, it is a theory which
attaches no meaning to those words of the twen-
tieth Article: the church bath authority in con-
troversies of faith ; and which rightly asserting
the supremacy of Scripture, wrongly sub joins to it
the supremacy of the individual next to Scripture.
But he does not appear, either at that or at any
subsequent time, to have examined that view of
religion, according to which, without the promi-
nent assertion, or even without the assermien at all,
of an abstract infallibility, the church, distributed
in her regular organization through the earth, is
divinely charged with the functions of a moral
guide, and instructs the individual believer with a
weight of authority varying according to the solem-
nity of the subject matter, the particular organ
from which the judgment proceeds, and its title to
represent her universal and continual sense. He
went therefore to the study of Holy Scripture, in
the year 1814, with the expectation that he could
find, firstly, a mathematical denmonstration of the
canon, and, secondly, the limits and definitions of
faith so laid down upon its sacred pages as (if we
may so speak) almost mechanically to preclude
mistake in every case of pious and upright inten-
tion. He was naturally much disappointed to find
that the authenticity and inspiration of the Bible
were themselves questions, like that of the char-
acter of the church, and as we have said, like most
other questions, to be examined by the light of
probable evidence. As in the case (if the church,
when he failed to find that sort of infallible teach-
ing which would go far to supersede faith and
moral discipline, he lost, and never recovered, the
very idea of her functions as a spiritual mother; so
he first imagined, apparently, that Scripture would
be to him all that the church had proposed to be;
and when this expectation was falsified, he very
speedily lost his hold upon Scripture, as an author-
itative document, altogether. Then doctrinal doubts
at once began to assault him; his understanding
wavered, and he had none of the extrinsic support
which he would have derived from the divines and
the reformers of the English Church, if it had
been his lot to recommence his studies in their
school, and if, like them, he had been content to
receive, as the legitimate witness to the sense of
Holy Scripture, the voice of the universal church.
So that he very soon lost any portion of dogmatic
faith that he had recovered. But having, as we
see from his whole works, much more of affection
than of conviction, he naturally clung to the moral
I Life, III., p. 406; and II., p. 235. iLife, I.,p. iii.
163LIFE OF MR. BLANCO WHITE.
teaching of Scripture as long as any strength
remained. He found the evidence on most contro-
verted doctrines so equal, as he thought, that he
conceived it best to have no opinion upon them
(1818); he imagined the purpose of Scripture
was to teach the spirit of Christian morality,~ not
to fix a code of opinions; he placed hefore him-
self Gods will as a rule of life (1821) ;3 having
doubts on the subject of particular and general
providence, he put that question as an abstract
one! into the catalogue of non-essentials (1822) ;4
and in one year more (1823) he concluded that5
Christianity had no letter, and that the spirit of
which it testifies could not he distinguished from
conscientious reason. But he does not appear,
during that period of declension, to have been
shaken as to the morality of the New Testament.
Most true indeed it is, that as the church is the
bulwark of the canon of the Scripture and the doc-
trine it contains, so that doctrine is the bulwark
of the whole of its moral law; and there is usually
silence for a little space bet~veen the enemys sur-
mounting one of these inclosures and the attempt
to scale the next. But in the period of his second
and final lapse from the Christian faith, which fol-
lowed the year 1830, and became rapid from 1833,
it is qnite evident that, following the natural order
of things, he became less and less firm by degrees
as to the morality of the Bible. He began by
holding that our duty was to receive Christ as our
moral king,6 and to believe in God, and exercise
the religious affections towards Him apart from all
dogmas as to his objective nature.7 But in 1836
he said
Dr. Whately has endeavored to gloss over the
false political economy of the Gospels, and indeed
of the New Testament altogether, in regard to
almsgiving: but the thing cannot be fairly done.
Christ and his Apostles thought that to give away
everything a man possessed was one of the highest
acts of virtue.6
Next he defined prayer to be, properly speaking,
a longing or desire, an act of the heart ;
and he adds,
To make it an act also of the lips, in regard to
God, may be excusable, under certain circum-
stances. ~
Then he established, incredible as it may appear
that such should be the result of almost a whole
life of criticism in one form or other, as a rule for
judging of the genuineness of passages in the New
Testament, the moral consequences which they
had produced,0 and their conformity to that reason
which he defined to be the voice of God within us.
I approve in them what I find worthy of approval,
and reject what I see no reason to believe or
follow. 12
On this ground we presume, as he does not name
any other, he repudiates (in 1834) the narrative
of the woman taken in adultery.3 With the lapse
of time the evil proceeds. In 1838 he says Soc-
rates would have been a very different, evidently
meaning an inferior, person, if he had had bodily
ill-health to hear; and he proceeds,4 in words
which we will not quote, (they simply express the
thought,) to the blasphemous remark that the same
would probably have been the case with our Lord.
This is, indeed, a sentiment quite within the creed
Life, I., p. 344. 2 lb., p. 368. ~ Tb .,p.378.
lb., p. 398. ~ lb., p. 405. 6 lb., II., p. 4.
Th., p. 276. 8 lb., p. 200. 9 lb., II., p. 263.
1~ lb., p. 287. lb., Ill., p. 155.
12 Compare II., 235. ~ Life, I.) ~. 281.
14 lb., III., p. 36.
of regular Unitarianism: but it is Unitarianism
practically applied, Unitarianism (so to speak) in
motion, and thus it strikes more forcibly upon the
eye. Some time later, however, he struck at the
very foundation of the moral code of Him who
inaugurated His great discourse with the text that
blessed are the poor in spirit. For Mr. Blanco
White writes thus concerning humility in 1840
Humility could not he raised to the catalogue
of virtues, except in a society chiefly composed of
men degraded by personal slavery, suds as history
exhibits the early church. Slaves alone could find
such a sanctified cloak for cowardice as humility
for it is not a dignified endurance of unavoidable
evil, but such a cringing as may allay the anger
of an insolent oppressor. Such subu~ission cannot
find acceptance in thine eyes, 0 God, for it classes
Thee with tise despots of this earth. * *
If he (our Saviour) ever uttered the rule of
offering the cheek for a second insult, he must
have done it under the conviction that the Oriental
style he was using could not be misunderstood but
by idiots. * * In the multitude of slaves who
flocked to the church is to be found the source of
that humility which has lowered the standard of
modern virtue.2
Then, becoming rabid in his infatuation, he pro-
ceeds to stigmatize3 the mean ambition, the low
and degraded character, and the worldly views
of the martyrs of that Lord who is to be glorified
in His saints and admired in them that believe:4
and as if it had been written in heaven that the
man who uttered this impiety should not 1)0 suf-
fered to do it without at the same time exposing
himself to ridicule, while he has thns the Christian
church and her achievenients in his eye, he pro-
ceeds to complain that thus
To create in us a habit of distrust and timidity,
is to deprive us of that confidence which is the
foundation of all high enterprise.5
Yet he knew something of the power of that
system which is thus enfeebled and degraded by
the doctrine of humility; for among th~e nsany
causes that embittered his last days and made his
life a torment, was the belief which he has re-
corded that, during his latter days, contrary to the
hopes he had once entertained, oxthodoxy was on
the advance in the land which he had hoped would
be its grave.
Lastly, we are obliged to observe, before quitting
this part of the subject, Mr. Blanco White appears
to have had most feeble ideas of the nature and
heinousness of sin as a contravention of the divine
will. Of the sins of his own early life he some-
times speaks in the terms of penitence, but we do
not perceive that the idea of sin as such ever raised
in him the horror which belongs to it. in his
later life, we usust say that his vehemence against
the Christian doctrine of original sin consorts but
too well with his faint impressions upon actual
sin. Of the former he does not scruple to say that
those who can believe in it are beyond the reach
of reasoning.6 Upon the latter, besides a scoff in
an earlier passage,7 he says
There is nothing like pore joy among us.
Pleasure constantly assumes the appearance of sin
a word which perverts every mind arno us.
The Hebrew had a sounder notion of the state of
man upon earth. See the opinions and sentiments
expressed in the book of Solomon.
St. l~vIatt. v. 3. Life, lit., p. 272-4.
273, note. 2 Thess. i. 10. p. 275.
lb., III., p. 77. lb., II., p. 298. 8 lb., III., p. 173.
164LIFE OF MR. BLANCO WHiTE.
We esteem these parts of his history as of the
highest importance; because they powerfully illus-
trate the inseparable connection between the mo-
rality of the Gospel and the rest of its doctrine,
and support the belief that the man who abandons
the latter puts a period, whether consciously or
unconsciously, to his possession of the former,
even although it may often happen that life is t,~oo
short and impediments too many to permit him to
pursue the dreary process to its close. Faith, then,
with him was a